


The Language of Birds

by ludling



Series: A Home at the End of the World [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Ginny Weasley, F/F, Horcrux Hermione, and that would not stop playing out in my head in stereo dolby surround sound, only bellamione if u squint sorry, the sequel no-one wanted
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:15:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22743124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ludling/pseuds/ludling
Summary: Ginny Weasley tries to make the best of things, she really does. Then an assignment leads her to some new truths about her closest friend.
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger & Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Hermione Granger/Ginny Weasley
Series: A Home at the End of the World [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640674
Comments: 76
Kudos: 125





	1. Grosbeak

**Author's Note:**

> Don't hate me for this.
> 
> (Also IF U WANT TO: picture hermione in the vibe of Julia Montague in 'The Bodyguard' and Ginny as a cross between Keira Knightley in 'Bend it Like Beckham' and Florence Pugh and youre in my mind. Welcome.)

> "She is lodged in me like a knife and yet I am beginning to forget her. Already the image of her that I hold in my head is fraying, bits of pigments, flakes of gold leaf, are chipping off. Will the entire canvas be empty one day? I have come to realise how little I knew her, I mean how shallowly I knew her, how ineptly. I do not blame myself for this. Perhaps I should. Was I too lazy, too inattentive, too self-absorbed? Yes, all of those things, and yet I cannot think it is a matter of blame, this forgetting, this not-having-known. I fancy, rather, that I expected too much, in the way of knowing. I know so little of myself, how should I think to know another?"

— **John Banville** , from _The Sea_ (Alfred A. Knopf, 2005)

> "The language of birds is very ancient, and like other ancient modes of speech, very elliptical; little is said, but much is meant and understood."

— **_– Gilbert White,_** from Letter XLIII, Selborne, 9 September 1778, _The Natural History of Selborne_ (1789)

James isn’t like anyone Ginny knows.

He’d been his own person from the minute he’d opened his eyes. Hagrid had told her that Harry's eyes had been blue for the first few days of his life too. James' had muddied into Weasley brown in the months after his birth, and teenage Ginny had chided herself for being disappointed.

She’s not disappointed now.

He barely has anything else of hers. The curve of his jaw, and maybe his ears. Ginny can’t remember Harry’s ears, and all the photos she ever sees his mop of unruly hair is hiding them. She can’t remember his voice very well these days if she’s honest. What she can remember is how happy they’d been together. It had filled every part of her life like a balloon. Being with him had made everything more.

“Your rabbits are getting toady Ginny dear” Her mother calls from across the steaming kitchen. Ginny blinks and looks at the last few soldiers in her line of napkin animals, and sees that they are indeed leaning toward the more amphibian side of things. She twitches her wand and the cloth napkins starch, then begin to stretch, until all of them have matching drooping ears.

James loves rabbits and to all the Weasley siblings great shock, had been allowed two pet ones in the garden, big Flemish meat rabbits, intended for one of Molly’s stews.

 _‘_ _I had to beg to keep Pidgewideon in my room, if I paid for all his feed, and he was a gift!’_ Ron had protested at the time. But Percy had elbowed Ron, and Ginny thought they’d all understood pretty well, even Luna who’s views on reality were misty if one put it kindly. James was a version of Harry Molly and Arthur could pour all their love into. The older she gets, the more Ginny marvels how her parents bore the knowledge that the child who was visiting them for holidays, the near-son who they sent presents to, might meet his doom at any minute.

So James is knitted for, taught to fix muggle motors, is offered second helpings of everything, is allowed rabbits and his own bedroom. They’re still her parents though, and Ginny knows James also has to weed and de-gnome the garden, collect eggs every evening, and feed the ghoul every other week. He prefers a muggle bike his grandad taught him to repair over the old broomsticks in the shed. Sometimes he brings blackberries, or once even a little bouquet of thistles back from his sojourns in the country lanes.

Ginny doubts today will be such a day though. For one it’s early February, and for another what newly eleven-year-old boy thinks of anything but himself on his birthday? The best either of them will get is a haphazard kiss on the cheek and a one armed muddy hug.

Molly is frying homemade beef patties, orbited by various knives chopping various greens. Ginny had made the mayonnaise earlier that morning, just before James’ letter arrived over breakfast. She’d seen him tuck the green-inked parchment into the stack of books in his backpack before he’d ridden off. No doubt he’s up high in the branches of some tree right now, reading and re-reading the letter, happy in the glowing knowledge that soon he’ll have his favourite meal and open his presents.

Ginny remembered her own eleventh birthday the same way. They’d been poorer so there’d been less presents, but the clear bolt of joy running through the day was the same.

She runs out of napkins, and begins to take mismatched silverware out of the drawers. She lines it up around the plates framing the magically extended kitchen table. They’ll have a full house tonight. Percy, George, Bill, Fleur and Victoire have all promised to be there. Even Ron said he’d pop around, leaving Luna and Artemis alone for the first time since the baby’s birth. Ginny and George had firmly promised each other they wouldn’t kill him. Even if he did start talking about the benefits of Horngobbler milk again.

In the centre of the table are a few sprigs of oak arranged around a thick candle that’s been lit for the whole of James’ birthday. Ginny knows that to an outside eye she looks like an attentive, if somewhat young mother, laying out the ingredients for her son’s eleventh birthday. She’s tied her hair back, and the bottom of her shirt bears a stain from the batter of the enormous cake her and Molly have stashed away in the pantry.

Maybe still to some she's a semi famous Quidditch player, if one _‘slightly too prone to fits of rage’_ as one careful commentator noted as she hit a famous Norwegian beater with his own bat, after he had the gall to kiss her to cheers from the crowd. To others again she’s a war hero, nearly legendary within her own right now for having a son with the Boy Who Lived and, eventually, Died.

What she really is, is a woman who’s waiting.

She tries not to let her eyes flick to the window too often, but they seem to wander there of their own accord. _Will she be here this time…?_

Hermione had made it to only one of James’ birthdays in its entirety. It had been the year they started living together. _‘Eight’_ She’d said to James, very seriously _‘The infinity symbol.’_ There’d been something in the way she said it. A gravity. Ginny had watched her grey eyes clear as they regarded James. Hermione always listened carefully to what her son said. She lent him books she thought he might like. She talked to him like he was a person in his own right, quite outside of the ivy of myth that had sprung up around them, and deserving of respect.

The others loved him yes. But they each saw an aspect of James that they particularly cherished. Ron talked to him like they’d been eleven together and defeated a mountain troll. With George he became a strange blurred copy of Fred. James could be funny if he was in the mood for it, but sometimes his volleys with her brother became uncanny enough for Molly to have to excuse herself to cry in the kitchen.

Only Hermione seems to see him, like Ginny, as simply James. And now she's going to miss his eleventh birthday.

*

Ginny watches the clock over dinner.

She watches the sky darken outside as they sing an out of tune ‘Happy Birthday’.

Teddy is particularly bad. His grandmothers thin voice isn’t much better. Ginny is touched they made the journey, but a big part of her eyes Andromeda sitting in what was meant to be Hermione’s chair with unease.

In the low birthday candlelight she’s nearly someone else. Ginny watches the way the shadows play on her high cheekbones. Watches the black glimmer of her eyes. She knows the suspicion is unfounded, knows the Department of Mysteries examined Andromeda even more closely than they examined Hermione once the dust settled, but sometimes she wonders. _What if…?_ It would have been so easy, stepping into a weaker sister’s life.

And no one ever did see the body. _It was all burnt away_ one of the older Aurors had told Ginny. _‘Conjured fire infused with powerful emotion has a way of even burning bones into nothing’_ he’d said.

Ginny knew of course who’d lit that fire. Every half decent historian of the Second Wizarding war knew that. It's the same woman who’s late to her son’s birthday. She’d disappeared during the battle and had come back, sixteen hours later, looking on the edge of death herself. Then she'd disappeared to another continent. Hermione’s whole history of the war had been one of Elsewhere, starting with her strange kidnapping by Bellatrix Lestrange.

Ginny knows this line of thought isn’t fair- Hermione’s absence had culminated in triumphs each time. She’d destroyed one of Voldemort’s seven horcruxes, she’d killed his foremost lieutenant and her high ranking husband, and she’d returned from Japan with a fervour to improve magical society for the least fortunate.

Strangely enough though her Order of Merlin hadn’t come. Harry had gotten his posthumously. First Class of course. Ron had received Second Class, and so had Neville. There’d even been talk of awarding Luna a Third Class one.

But Hermione had received nothing. Ginny thought she knew why. She frightened people. There was something about her after her three great vanishing acts that said ‘Get away and don't look back ’.

Ginny hadn’t kept away. Or at least not for long. She’d emerged from her years of self-destruction, and then Hermione had come to her, colder than she remembered her friend ever to be, and Ginny had set herself a challenge. At first it was something of a game. Sometimes if she dammed the stream of their conversation just right she could coax Hermione into smiling.

She’d done it quite by accident the first time and the rush of happiness that had come with it seemed to have wandered in from a long gone life.

So she’d kept experimenting. There were lots of things Hermione found amusing, and even a few that would make her laugh. She wanted nothing of Ginny, and it was surprisingly easy to cook dinner for her, and watch terrible muggle shows and occasionally ply her with alcohol. She watched Ginny as steadily as if the younger witch was a bird that had flown into Hermione’s house, batting its wings and causing a mess. _Or perhaps she is the bird_ , Ginny muses, receiving her slice of birthday cake, _and I'm the one with the outstretched hand, trying to coax her into landing._

The door opens. Ginny looks up, and there she is.

 _She’s tired,_ is Ginny’s first thought, and then the other witch is obscured from view because James has flung himself into her arms. Ginny’s eyes snag on the bit of pale wrist that shows underneath her gloves where she cups James’ head. When she looks up Hermione is looking at her. Her hair is curled over her shoulders. She's gotten a few new wrinkles this year that have nothing to do with age.

Before Ginny can decide why she suddenly feels like she’s about to throw up, Hermione walks over to her and hovers a gloved hand as if to cup her face. At the last minute she withdraws. “I’m sorry I’m late” She says, quietly, just for Ginny to hear.

There’a no reason for Ginny to feel this relieved. _It’s just a birthday party for Merlin’s sake._ They would have still lived together tomorrow and all the foreseeable nights after that. So why does she feel like some great test has been passed? Why are her hands clammy and her mouth full of wool?

“That’s okay” She manages. Hermione’s eyebrows knit together briefly, then she kisses Ginny right on the cheek, her own face cool from the early spring air, then draws back, eyes clouding over-

“Hermione!” The moment breaks, and Hermione receives her squeeze from Molly. Ginny wonders if anyone else sees the way her shoulders tense. She doesn’t like to be touched, which makes the kiss doubly strange.

Ginny watches for it and catches the exact moment Hermione’s eyes land on Andromeda. She flinches. _Every time_ , the Auror in Ginny whispers. But she recovers well enough, even manages to ask after Narcissa Malfoy of all people.

Then she asks Teddy if he's looking forward to third year, and just like that both him and Victoire are off , chattering excitedly about the prospect of Hogsmeade. James sits next to Hermione and shows her his letter while they chatter. Ginny touches her wand and the rest of the talking mutes to her ears. She still has to strain to hear what they say.

“Will you take me shopping for supplies?”

Hermione peers over her reading glasses from the second page of the letter. A tiny line sits between her eyebrows.

“Won't your mother want to take you?” She asks, low and thoughtful, smoothing the hair away from his face. He rolls his eyes and shrugs away from her.

“Three people can go shopping.”

Just then Hermione looks up, and Ginny manages to look interested in the conversation around her. She feels Hermione's gaze on her and she makes an effort to nod attentively to whatever the still muted Ron is saying to her. It's the height of rudeness to listen in, but some field-work habits are hard to shake. Whatever Ron is saying is obviously very dramatic, judging by the wild gesticulations that accompany it. Merlin, she hopes it's not another anecdote from the birth. The last five tidbits had left her queasy enough.

The prickly feeling of being watched finally leaves her. She touches her wand a moment later.

“…and that's why the amino acids in Hobs milk are absolutely essential for any growing infant” Ron finishes smugly. “Im so glad you're finally coming around to our view of things.”

*

“Weasley!”

When Robards calls her to his office Tuesday morning, Ginny is still in a good mood. The rest of James’ birthday had been a sweet evening.They'd walked a little ways into the cold country night after dinner, James dragging Hermione by the hand to show her a pixie nest he'd found earlier in the day, Ginny lagging behind, content to watch them. 

Seeing Allegra the night after also hadn't hurt. They had a routine almost. Dinner at the tiny Ethiopian place near the Ministry’s east entrance, then a pint at the Hound and Fox. Sometimes some light necking at Allegra’s. Sometimes more than that. Allegra worked in the department of Sub-Regulations of Magical Transport, a dull limbo that had no business harbouring anyone half so pretty.

So Ginny was still only half stepped of a pleasant haze. A haze swiftly punctured by her boss. With just nine words.

“You went to school with Draco Malfoy, right Weasley?”

She frowns at the wealth of images that conjures up. Of them palling around in the lawn. Not being tortured by his cronies every other day.

“Together is a strong word sir” She hedges. She likes Gawain Robards. Likes his lack of patience and his pushes on utilising muggle law agency networks for their own ends, but he has a habit of becoming irate very quickly if reality doesn't line up with his pronouncements. “He was a year above me.”

Robards is still regarding her, arms folded in front of his muggle style business shirt. “You know you're one of my best Weasley”

Something in her still glows at that. But on the outside she just rolls her eyes. “What boring job is hurtling my way guv?” She asks, knowing that it's something of an honour in itself to be the only Auror under thirty to be trusted with anything amounting to more than showy headhunting.

“Malfoy’s up to something. I want eyes on him and I want them to be your eyes”

Ginny can't believe she's about to say the words but she does.

“But Malfoy was acquitted. Both him and his mother were. Coercion. And they tried to save-”

But suddenly in this room, with the chatter of the Auror cubicles behind her, smack-dab in the sun of her new life, she can't quite say Harry’s name aloud. She blinks away the moisture and looks at Robards. He's seen her falter of course. Hard not to when every quirk of her face has been catalogued by _Witch Weekly_ at least five times. She's better at not slipping up these days. The undertow hasn't pulled her below in a while.

“Either way." He clears his throat loudly, and the room comes back into focus. Ginny thinks of Hermione. Her impassive face captured in the _Daily Prophet,_ so unlike the emotional girl she'd been at school. Thinks of her own face in better articles. She's an Auror. A good Auror even. She can do this. She tunes back to Robard's voice. "That weasel is up to something. I'm hearing all kinds of unpleasant whispers from our various shadowy corners. I want to be on top of the situation before anything happens.”

Ginny chews her lip. “How do you want me to do this? We honestly have nearly no history. Unless you count him calling me a blood traitor every other year.”

“Sniff around. Befriend his wife.”

Now Ginny snorts. “I have even less in common with Daphne Greengrass than I do with Malfoy. What in Merlin's name would we talk about?”

“Beauty charms, nails, shoppin-ouch!” He counts them off on his hands and laughs when Ginny zaps his index finger. _Nails indeed._

“Talk to his business contacts. Get a feel for his company. Make yourself part of the furniture.”

Robards waves her away from his desk, knowing full well that he's just ruined her life for the foreseeable future.

“Oh yes. And make sure he doesn't notice”

*

“N’uck te chu”

“Nah wrong again” Ginny answers, feet up on a pillow, and Lord Amersham’s extensive Mermish dictionary making her lose feeling in her thighs. James is still at her parents. He's spent the better part of the winter there. Ginny doesn't begrudge him this. They're both boring when they're immersed in new projects. And James' whole upbringing has been more on the village than nuclear side.

Hermione frowns. She'd been sitting on the couch when Ginny first offered to do this, but she's migrated to one of the wooden dining chair barely a minute after being joined there. Ginny tells herself very sternly to not be hurt by this. It's just Hermione’s way.

Instead she flicks a few pages forward, past the basic courtesies Hermione is trying to learn. A silverpoint of a Pacific Merwoman fills the whole page. Her nipples have been drawn with great detail. Her face is rough by comparison.

“Bit of a creep old Am-Sham” She mutters. Hermione slumps in her chair and snorts. Ginny feels herself glow from the minor victory.

“He's the best Greater Pacific Mermish source we have.” Hermione says, stretching her arms out above her head and closing her eyes. A thin strip of skin shows at her midriff. Ginny looks away. “They don't have a written language themselves, barely a phonetic one, and no one has ever bothered togo into such detail as this creep”

Ginny looks at the mermish woman again. Even in his crude hand, Amersham has conveyed something of her strangeness. A creature merely trapped for a moment in the hum-drum of the everyday world. She wonders how the old Lord met her. Had he tried to work her out too, or was she too foreign in the end that even he had to concede their acquaintance doomed? 

“He killed three of them you know.”

Ginny looks up to Hermione studying her. There's a look of challenge in her eyes. And something else. Something darker.

“He wanted to see how they worked” She nods to the face still underneath Ginny’s fingers “Dig up all their dark secrets.”

Ginny snatches back her hand as if burned. Hermione looks pleased, then annoyed. She pushes two thumbs into the curve of her left eyebrow, her usual signal for one of her headaches.

Ginny knows that this is her signal to leave. The first jab should have sent her packing already. It happens every other week. The Other One will make an appearance. That's what Ginny thinks of her as. Like a Mr Hyde ‘evil’ version of her best friend.Except Ginny can't really make out her eyes, and she has a feeling they aren't Hermione's at all.

So she stays where she is, counting the minutes on the clock on the fireplace behind Hermione's pinched face. _Every minute I stay is another strike in my column and someday it'll mean something_.

These moments are like a jail cell in the usual bright world of their friendship. Ginny thinks of herself as a prisoner, just as Hermione must have been, scratching lines on a wall while the sun is eclipsed. She thinks on Hermione as she last remembers her Before. They'd been sitting together at the Bill and Fleur's wedding. Hermione had giggled at something Ron said behind Aunt Muriel's back. Her dress had been red and her hair pinned up. Ginny hadn't seen her that at ease since.

If Bellatrix Lestrange wasn't already dead, Ginny would very much like to kill her.

*

Tailing Malfoy has been one of the more comfortable jobs of Ginny's entire Auror career.

The prat spends most of his time having business lunches at extravagant prices, taking jaunts cross country to various mines and the rest behind the closed gates of his mansion.

He's had a son, Ginny learns through her preliminary paper research. Scorpius Narcissus Malfoy. Three years old and startlingly healthy considering his difficult infancy. Both Daphne and the child nearly died a few times. Ginny almost feels bad for the kid. He's in for a time and a half with that name at school.

The Auror Office would 'iron out the kinks' while Ginny did her preliminary legwork, which was why she now sat next to Gaspard de Putte, an indolent Belgian heir that she'd busted a year ago over some unsavoury business with a Banshee. He has a new tooth gem that Ginny wants to pry off on sight, long blonde hair and a way of drawling his words that signals not just his boredom with her, but with every other human being in Greater London. Possibly Britain. Ginny actually thinks she might have preferred Malfoy's direct company.

Still, Putty is to be her occasional ticket into spheres of wizarding society that she would have no reason to enter alone. On paper it made some level on sense Ginny muses, spearing another edible poesy out of her salad, while listening to the business lunch Malfoy is conducting two tables over. Nothing fascinating has been said thus far, and Ginny has the sinking feeling that, in true Pureblood waffling fashion, nothing of substance will be said for the next three courses.

Ginny lets part of her attention drift to the rest of the gilded cafeteria. A quartet of witches play in the far corner. The strings on their instruments gleam like unicorn hair. Ginny knows Hermione would have words to say on that. The rest of the room is full of the same set of wizards, that questionable margin who never actually joined the Death Eaters outright, but never said _boo_ against them either. Ginny has a sinking feeling that she's due for a run-in with Pansy Parkinson sooner or later on this job.

She just hopes that this one can be kept out of the gossip papers for another few weeks. She's had a few jobs go south like that. Hard to be innocuous when you're being trailed by photographers. But they'd mostly lost interest in what's left of the Golden Trio these days. Wizarding Britain is on the mend. There are pop-stars and socialites on the cover of Molly's _Witch Weekly_ subscription again, and Ginny knows they are all glad of it.

And besides, it's one thing to sit with Putty ( _Gaspard_ , she must remember to call him _Gaspard_ ) in a borrowed lavender top that shows off more than a hint of cleavage, and quite another to explain it to Mum, whose mentions of _'a nice boy'_ have steadily increased as James approaches Hogwarts age.

"- we'd need more time to move them" Ginny's ears perk up as the younger of Malfoy's business contact leans forward and finally gets to it. "The border being as it is-"

Ginny keeps her eyes on Putty. He's a terrible job of keeping the conversation up as she listens in, staring off into the distance, and slouching in his seat. Ginny knows at least three seperate pairs of feminine eyes are glaring daggers at her in jealousy. She hopes they have better use of him than her. She takes a large sip of her magically refilling glass and gives him a swift kick under the table. He sits up a little straighter.

Ginny looks past him, straight into Malfoy's narrowed eyes. The moment has come a little sooner than she planned, but she tilts her head and smiles. She also ends the eavesdropping spell. One can never be too careful, even with a bonafide prat like Draco Malfoy.

Putty snorts when she looks back at him. "Caught huh?" He says, looking into the golden bowl of his wine. Ginny wonders why anyone would have any other emotion towards him but rage.

"Always part of it" She answers tightly, throwing a silky curl of her own red hair back over her bare shoulder, and noting the way Putty's eyes track the movement. "Hide in plain sight" She reaches forward and takes the wine glass out of his hand, touches it to her lip and takes a sip. The imprint of her coral lipstick on its rim is it's own little story, paired with the way Gaspard swallows-

"I didn't know they let you bring pets in here" Malfoy drawls, travelling coat slung over his arm, coming to a stop at their table. Ginny sets down the glass. Wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, knowing she's smudged what little remains of her lipstick.

"You'll have to take your esteemed patronage elsewhere" She answers, slurring her words a little. Not too much. Just enough to make Malfoy feel he's got the upper hand. His eyes still narrow. He, like every other wizard in Britain with a _Prophet_ subscription, knows what Ginny does. It's the thing that makes her job the hardest.

"Shouldn't you be catching muggle maimers?" He asks, and Ginny takes another long drink of her alcohol-free champagne.

"Shouldn't you be in Azkaban?" She shoots back "Just like dear Daddy before you?" 

Now she definitely sees rage in Draco's eyes. _Good_. Let their personal history take up his vision. That's a smokescreen she can use.

Malfoy surprises her however, seemingly mastering himself and turning to Putty. "Gaspard de Putte. We met last year in Fez at that horrid Diplomat's Dinner."

Putty nods, regally, like a prince having finally been addressed in the correct form. "How anyone could overcook fish so I don't know."

"An interesting match for you Weasley. Punching a bit above your weight?" Malfoy says turning his attention back to Ginny. "And anyway, I thought you were busy pining after Granger?"

The words hit Ginny with the force of a small meteor. Pining after Hermione? _Pining?_ How did Malfoy of all people know - did this mean it was common gossip - did _everyone_ -

"A beautiful woman is a beautiful woman" Putty says, looking somewhere over Malfoy's shoulder. Ginny would be annoyed at him for that pathetic defence, but she can barely nod, can barely take another sip of wine.

Malfoy tilts his blonde head. "No offence meant Mr de Putte. Give my warmest regards to your father." He seems about to leave, but turns back once more.

"Do tell Robards to send someone else to tail me to the port next week." He walks away from their table, and the still stupefied Ginny "Five years of school together was quite enough."

*

Ginny feels beyond exhausted when she finally mounts the townhouse steps.

Malfoy's words gnaw at her. She doesn't 'pine' after Hermione. She's there for her. They're there for each other. They need each other. Besides what does the slimy Death Eater git know? Ginny is Hermione's friend. Her best friend- the only one who knows how to make her laugh and-

"Bad day?"

Hermione peeks her head out of the kitchen, still in her office clothes but with bare stockinged feet. Ginny can smell onions and garlic wafting out of the kitchen behind her. 

She shrugs, drops her gym bag and opens the fridge for a beer. She's scrubbed off the make-up, and returned the lavender top to Allegra. She even managed to go for a run. Hermione goes back to grating carrots, eyes skimming over a report she's propped open with the ceramic butter dish. Ginny eyes the little lines of concentration around her eyes, and takes a few more pulls of cold beer.

"What are you making?"

"Sort of pasta thing with hidden vegetables" Hermione answers, not taking her eyes off the parchment of minutes, but smiling faintly "One day your son will eat an asparagus without being tricked into it."

"One day" Ginny scoffs "Should I cut up some chicken?"

Hermione's back in report-world, and just nods absently. Her blouse has come untucked from her skirt, and Ginny feels, as always, a strange sense of privilege washing over her, knowing she's the only one who gets to see this somewhat relaxed version of Hermione, one so unlike her stern portrait in the Ministry hall, or her scowling image in the _Daily Prophet,_ all hard lines and arguments-

"What?" Ginny looks up to find Hermione staring at her. Her face heats. To anyone on the outside that would have appeared like she was staring at her best friend's ass, when really it was just the adorable puff of her untucked shirt, but how does she even say that without sounding even battier-

"Work was terrible" She blurts, for want of a convenient asteroid hitting their kitchen "Robards took me off a really interesting case - it was about-" She nearly says _that prat, Draco Malfoy_ , but something stops her. "Just some trading stuff - but really interesting." She finishes lamely.

Hermione looks at her for another long moment. A shadow passes over her eyes. Ginny has the weirdest urge to run upstairs, grab James and barricade the door. But why? It's just Hermione, even if there is a hint of the Other One in the air. Hermione would never hurt her. Not intentionally. Though when they were at school together Ginny is sure Hermione didn't have this many...gaps. She disappears almost. But then it's not as though they spent that much time together at school, and if they did, it was with Harry.

She remembers the first time she saw Hermione was with Harry. She'd been tanned from her holiday abroad. Diagon Alley had been loud around them, and Ginny had been so excited to join them at Hogwarts. Then at _Flourish & Blotts_ Harry had stood up to Draco's father, for all the good it had done her. He'd rescued her in the end. She'd never forget that as long as she lived. Harry's dear face, covered in muck, telling her that everything was going to be okay now, that Riddle was gone.

"What are your plans for tomorrow?" Ginny blinks. Hermione seems to have returned enough to be annoyed. _Annoyed at me?_ Ginny thinks with a pang. _Pining after Granger_ , Malfoy's voice echoes in her head.

"Uh- I'm off that case - so maybe just some paperwork. Feeling sorry for myself most probably." She attempts to smile at her own lame joke. Hermione's lips twitch, but the serious look remains. The darkness is gone from her eyes though. Ginny feels like she can breathe again.

"We still have to buy James something for school."

Ginny has a sinking feeling at these words. She's sure she mentioned it, but perhaps she did forget with the new case taking up so much of her thoughts. The worst part is she can see the three of them on a sunlit day in Diagon Alley. Just like the day they met, so long ago. She realises she wants it quite desperately.

"Mum and George already took him" She says, hating every pleading look that lead her to agree to this request. "You know how George is with him. I half think he's expanding into Hogsmeade so he has a chance to hang out with James."

Hermione doesn't seem put out. She rolls her eyes "I meant gifts - not school supplies. Not everyday your only son starts at Hogwarts" She lowers her voice and Ginny's heart does a weird jump. "I have a cancelled meeting after lunch. Pick me up then and we'll get him a surprise for when we pick him up."

Now Ginny sees the two of them, looking into muggle shop windows together, maybe grabbing an afternoon drink-

 _Pining after Granger_ , Malfoy's voice cuts through her mind once more. It doesn't deflate her growing sense of happiness. Not in the least. 

*

The next day seems to drag into a small eternity.

Ginny writes up her notes on the Malfoy case, taking care to note his dubious connections to both the Balkan black market, and to a disgraced Dragon-keeper in North Africa. It's still thin. She's not had enough time to put together a stronger case and it bothers her how light the file remains.

There's something criminal going on there, she can feel it in her teeth. Draco Malfoy never stopped being the evil little prat he was in school, no matter what the Wizgamot thought. Ginny knew him then, and she knows him now.

She sits in on the brief for the two dour Aurors who are taking over the case. Heathcote and Finch. They're older than her by a decade and they both dislike her. She's used to this. ' _Golden Trio Status_ ' some of the more vocal players on the old Quidditch league used to call it. She had _Golden Trio Status_ and thus she could do no wrong. Apparently it opened doors for her and it set up cushy positions. She'd like to tell them all to go and french a Dementor. 

The rest of Ginny's morning is spent dreading the flying missives that whir overhead. Hermione has cancelled plans before, and within the hour. Nothing personal, Ginny reminds herself, just her job.

But when lunch comes, no missive has appeared, and she nearly spills her cold tea in her haste to stuff all her papers into her desk.

"Got a hot date Weasley?" Marcus from the cubicle opposite coos, to appreciative hoots from around the room. She flips him off while she zips up her jacket.

Hermione's still at her desk when Ginny arrives, slightly out of breath after tearing past Flo's outer office, five minutes later. Her mouth is set in a thin line, and she doesn't look up when Ginny all but crashes into the chair opposite her.

"You ready?" Ginny ventures, still wheezing a little, and palming a stitch on her left side.

Hermione signs another document. Her quill scratches hard lines into the parchment. She stamps the scroll with so much force that Ginny jumps slightly in spite of herself. Their eyes meet. Ginny's stomach drops. She's not seen Hermione this angry since they knocked back that last House-elf reform bill.

"Flo!" Hermione calls, breaking the moment, and hands off the bundle of rolled parchment to her assistant. Ginny tries to catch her eye, as Hermione frowns back at the document in front of her. Flo mouths _'I don't know_ ' and makes an equally hasty retreat.

"What were you doing with Gaspard de Putte?"

Ginny's stares at her. "What?"

"Gaspard de Putte. You. Him. Lunch." Hermione spits out the words, then takes off her reading glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose. Ginny sees Hermione's wearing the pearl studs she got her last Christmas.

Is she... jealous?

The novelty of this thought momentarily silences Ginny. She's dated a few people since they've lived together, even if she never brought many of them home ( _'Why must we always do this at my place?'_ Allegra, lips red and pouting) but Hermione never seemed to mind them.

"I-" She begins, heart beating hard and unsure how to begin. Hermione being jealous would mean Hermione was possessive of Ginny? Possessive of their life together? Or of Ginny herself - or of -

"His father owns the largest commercial asp-coral plantation in the Phillipines" Hermione continues "It is a sacred plant to the local merpeople - and its farming by a European company is a violation of a hundred different trade laws." Hermione's voice is as cold as Ginny's ever heard it. It sends a shaft of ice through her heart. Her whole body gets cold and then hot. Her vision blurs - how _stupid_ could she have been to think-

"Ginny?" Now Hermione sounds concerned and if Ginny could make out her face, she's sure she'd see her customary frown, like Ginny was another point on a very long list of problems she had to deal with. So she wants to answer Hermione- she's not a burden - that's the whole point - but she can't quite get the words out, choking on the force of her emotions before Hermione shot them to hell.

A hand, a cool hand on her forehead, and Hermione's concerned face much too close to her own- she pushes it away and stands, nearly stumbling away from the desk in her haste.

"Who told you that?" She manages, able to speak now they have some physical distance between them. Hermione's hands still hover, and she frowns fiercely. 

"It was - never mind that." Hermione takes a cautious step towards Ginny, hands held palms up, as if Ginny is a wounded animal she might startle "I should have known it wasn't true." Her voice is pitched to soothe, and Ginny tells herself to calm down, to explain the obvious mistake here.

"Are you feeling alright?" Hermione takes another step closer. Ginny's eyes catch on a little silver ring glinting on her pinky. The noise of the Ministry comes back in increments.

"Yeah" She manages "Yeah - just had a faint spell." She gives Hermione the ghost of a winning smile. "Probably just need some food."

*

That's how they end up at what she's come to think of as Allegra's pub. Ginny really does feel better after a lager and a serving of greasy chips, and more than a little silly.

Hermione hasn't said much, just sits quietly across from her, sipping a glass of pumpkin soda, and watching the other patrons. Ginny has never seen her really drunk. It would entail a loss of control. She takes a chip whenever Ginny wordlessly passes her one.

The silence is nearly awkward, and suddenly Ginny hears herself say "I did have lunch with Gaspard." Hermione looks at her, expression carefully neutral, obviously giving Ginny space to explain herself.

"He's an asset from the Auror's office. We have something on him - so sometimes he gets pulled into our investigations. A sort of ticket to certain places."

Hermione huffs out a breath. "Well, I feel like a right fool."

"You didn't know" Ginny says, and gifts her another chip. Hermione takes it and eats it in two dainty bites.

"I jumped down your throat Ginny" She wipes her fingers on the napkin her glass sits on, a flicker of distaste passing over her features "I honestly don't know what came over me."

Ginny remembers thinking she knew and flushes.

" 'S okay" She shrugs, and gulps down the rest of her beer to hide her red face "Buy us another round and all is forgiven."

She means this with every fibre of her being she realises. She would forgive Hermione anything. It's odd. Her and Harry never had a chance to walk very far down this domestic road. She wonders if she would have forgiven him anything too.

To Ginny's surprise, Hermione doesn't return with a beer, but two decorated cocktails. Ginny eyes the pink carbonation and raises her eyebrows.

"Most expensive drink on the menu" Hermione shrugs, a little half-smile playing around her mouth, and Ginny wonders where she keeps this side of herself for the rest of her life. This light, airy Hermione who fastens her lips around the little plastic straw and then winces.

"Merlin that's sweet!"

Ginny, feeling boneless and happy again, lifts her glass.

"To friendship" She says, and means it. If this is all they can ever be to each other, Ginny will take it. Hermione holds on to her glass a little longer, face thoughtful.

"To you." She finally says, low and sincere, and Ginny has to look away from her eyes.

*

Muggle London, while dreary and uninspiring most days Ginny dips into it, can also produce some startling gems.

Ginny and Hermione are in the local muggle high street, hands pressed against a cool glass shop window, the afternoon sun warm on their backs. Ginny is full of a fried muggle confectionary Hermione recommended ( _Dough-nuts_ , she'd enunciated very carefully, before watching Ginny take a bite of one the way a scientist might study a bug) and the sort of elation she usually feels on the Quidditch pitch.

"That one would definitely go over well." Ginny nods towards the James-sized teddy bear propped up in the display behind the shop window.

"He'd never speak to us again!" Hermione half-hiccups, turning around and closing her eyes, the sun full on her face. 

Ginny stays focused. "No" She says "I can definitely see that one would be a winner in the Gryffindor boys dormitory."

Hermione snorts and leans her sun-warmed shoulder against Ginny. Then loops her hand through Ginny's arm and pulls them on. She lets go not two seconds later, but still. The street is full of muggles, just enjoying the spring day. The muggle council has put the flower baskets out on the lampposts already. Ginny loves every person out today. She loves the whole day.

"Who says he'll be in Gryffindor anyway?" Hermione says archly, making an elaborate show of matching Ginny's step. "I was nearly in Ravenclaw."

Ginny loops her arm through Hermione's. "He might not take after you." She says, enjoying this fantasy. 

Hermione feigns outrage "Of course he will- James has taste! He's reading at least three grades above his own."

"Out of self-preservation I'm sure" Ginny says, even though the sight of Hermione and James engrossed in their reading is the one that comes to mind when she thinks _home_.

They pass the last cluster of shops, and take a turn down to the canal. A cluster of baby swans float past them. Ginny is overcome with the urge to tell Hermione how much she loves having her in their lives. She bites her tongue. She knows from past experience how quickly the other woman startles. And what is a declaration of love anyway, except for a cage? Ginny is someone Hermione should feel free with.

"It's nice here" Hermione says, surprising her "Quiet."

Ginny has ridden her bike down this particular canal a lot. Mostly with James. There's a lake a little further down, and a cafe that used to be a watermill.

It doesn't shock her that Hermione's never been here, even though it's practically right around the corner from their house. Work always kept her indoors. But Ginny doesn't mention this, just hums in agreement. She does risk resting her head on Hermione's shoulder. She risks closing her eyes. It feels nice.

"Ginny?"

Ginny opens her eyes reluctantly. The sun has dipped behind the bare blackberry brambles. Hermione doesn't seem entirely giddy anymore. Ginny lifts her head and looks at her. Hermione looks back.

Her eyes flicker to Ginny's mouth, and Ginny holds herself so still, wanting to be sure who initiated this, who leaned in until their breath was touching, until she could see the freckles dusting the bridge of Hermione's nose-

Her breath is warm on Ginny's lips. A diorama from a picture book. The lady leaning down from her horse in a field of flowers. The knight gazing up. In the low light Hermione's eyes appear almost black and Ginny feels an all-too familiar shiver of fear, of uncertainty- but she stays still anyway, because she'd do anything for this woman, follow her anywhere she wanted to go-

" _No._ "

The snarl is feral, a completely alien sound ripped from Hermione's lips. She shoves Ginny away, and for a moment Ginny feels sharp nails, and smells something like heated metal, even though she knows Hermione keeps her nails short and favours a floral perfume.

They stare at each other. Hermione's chest heaves and her mouth is slightly open, pretty and inviting enough that Ginny sways forward without quite meaning to, if only to touch-

 _Pop_.

Hermione's gone and Ginny stands alone.


	2. Jackdaw

“Are you sure about this?” Ginny asks for what feels like the twentieth time. “It’s a big decision, especially with school starting next week-“

“Just do it Mum” James groans, voice echoing back from the bath in which he’s seated. Ginny traces the indent of her fingernail near the base of her wand. It’s where she grips too tight every time she casts a harmful curse. The bathroom is still filled with steam from the bubble bath James has drawn for himself. His two plastic ducks sit on the edge of the tub beside him, quite dry. Ginny can’t remember the last time he used them. It hits her again. He’s growing up. He’s as old as Harry was-

“ _Muuuum!_ ”

She runs her wand along his skull. A clump of hair lands in the foam and hangs there. They both stare at it a moment. Then James grins. “Keep going,” He says, angling his head so she can reach it better.

Ginny complies. She traces the long end of her wand along every plane of her son’s head, until none of the hair is longer than a centimeter.

“Still sure about the rat-tail?” She asks. He gives her a withering look. She laughs, then pilots his face away with her fingertips and shaves the final section of hair near his nape. Baby hair by the looks of it. Soft and an entirely different texture to the rest of the wiry mop. Ginny knows Molly would have snatched it out of the water as a keepsake. Just for that reason alone, she resists.

“All done,” She says instead, scooping up some water and washing the last of the loose hairs away from his head. She gives him Hermione’s small make-up mirror. His grin is reflected back at her.

“Happy?” She asks a little redundantly. James nods, still staring at his reflection. He turns around to face her.

It shouldn’t shock her, but it does.

The close-cropped hair has made him look different. Older. And a lot less like Harry. Ginny knows that was the point, even if James cited every reason but. She kisses the top of his head quickly so he doesn’t see the shine in her eyes. Harry would have been so proud of James, and here is his son, ashamed of him.

She stands, knowing she has moments before she starts to sniffle in earnest. She never used to be like this. She was tough. Only girl with six brothers. It didn’t get tougher than that-

“Make sure you get a quick rinse under the shower after the bath. And I’ll check if the toothbrush has been used alright?” She squashes out, hand already on the doorknob. James ignores her, as he does every time she attempts to take on any traditional parental role, once again engrossed in the mirror. She decides to forgo demanding a response and lets herself out of the little room.

The corridor is dark and cool. Ginny leans against the wall, and closes her eyes. Bites the second knuckle of her index finger to stop any noises becoming audible.

There’s no reason to bother really. With his first year at Hogwarts barely a week away, James has the attention span of a fruit-fly and Hermione is out of the house on one of her mysterious overnight trips.

Ginny is all alone.

That thought certainly doesn’t help, and she feels her breathing speed up, her heart working double time. She counts her breaths, focusing on boring things, mundane things- the Hutchison case- her assigned job that should have wrapped up months ago, thinks of James when he still wanted to be Harry, Molly’s reading glasses on and using his Grandad’s Muggle fountain pen to give himself a lighting bolt scar-

 _There_ , that works. She’s not calm, but at least the edge of panic no longer threatens. She opens her eyes. The house is quiet. She should put the leftovers of their Indian take-out in the fridge. She should prep her notes for tomorrows briefing.

_It would all be better if Hermione came home._

Ginny hates this thought. Hates that it is always on the tip of her tongue these past few months. Hermione _is_ home. Most nights of the week. She cooks dinner, she works too much, and she buys books for James. Nothing has changed.

 _Nothing is the same._ This too comes, as it has every day, without Ginny thinking it. If only she could work out how to fix what had happened. How to walk it back?

But every time she’s tried to bring it up, Hermione had seemed to be only half-listening to her. She did that a lot these past few months. She doesn’t listen, always already halfway out the door, or buried in prep for her oh-so-important trip to a tiny chain of islands in the middle of the Pacific and her precious mermish conflicts.

Ginny used to be proud of her ability to draw Hermione out of her shell. She thought of it almost like a supernatural gift, something that she brought to their friendship. Hermione was stable and dependable, if a little cold, and Ginny was impulsive and fun, if a little reckless. She thought they needed each other for balance if nothing else.

Nowadays there are junior conservation ministers who can wring more words out of Hermione Granger. It’s not quite the same as losing her balance and falling flat on her face, but Ginny can’t shake the feeling that’s what’s happened all the same.

*

“You’re distracted”

Ginny looks up, face slick and confused, at Allegra who shifts away from her, closing her legs. Then she chances a glance at the alarm clock on Allegra’s bedside, next to a little vase filled with water and a drooping bundle of jasmine. It’s barely five minutes since they started. Ginny frowns.

Allegra is still wearing her blouse, a wine-red silk thing that would have made Ginny blush to wear into the Ministry. She can see the edge of her lacy black bra, and the flush that’s crept up from Allegra’s chest to her neck. Usually all these were good signs. But Allegra’s pulling a blanket over her chest, and won’t meet Ginny’s eye.

“What do you mean?” Ginny says, wiping her face on the sleeve of her shirt. Allegra’s mouth curls in disgust. It was the feature that first caught Ginny’s eye. A rose petal mouth out of some watercolour portrait. Quite suddenly, Ginny wants to shake her. _It’s your own stuff you twat._

“Why don’t you ever introduce me to anyone?”

“What?” Ginny’s truly disoriented now. She’d bought Allegra a whole bottle of her favourite wine. She knew exactly what dish the other woman would want, hold the chili, hold the onion. They’d had a perfectly nice evening. Like they’d been having for months. _Oh_ , Ginny thinks, and starts to have a very bad feeling where this is heading.

“I see the other shoe has dropped” Allegra says dryly. Her colouring is rapidly returning to its usual milky complexion. Ginny sometimes wondered if her own skin was like that under all the freckles. _Maybe if I’d been a spoiled rich girl who’s parents spirited me away from the war-_ but no. She won’t think like that. It isn’t fair. She’d do the same for James in a heartbeat.

“Well,” Ginny hears herself say in her Auror voice. _Her_ _grown-up voice,_ a mental copy of Ron teases her. “Say what you have to say then.”

Allegra stares at her for a moment. Ginny is surprised by the dislike shining in her eyes. She knew they’d reached the edge of small talk a while back, but the sex was solid and Allegra hadn’t seemed like the type of person who needed some big romance.

“You’re really fucked up you know that” Allegra spits out, probably thinking she’s wounding Ginny, telling her some brand new information. Instead her words land and Ginny just feels … tired.

She gets up, looking anywhere but Allegra, collects her clothes and pads down the hallway to the bathroom. The woman who stares back at her from the mirrored cabinet looks wrung-out. Her red hair is greasy and there’s dark circles under her eyes. She fishes an expensive looking face-cream out of Allegra’s make-up bag. Massages some on her face, then squeezes the rest down the drain. Even this small pettiness makes her feel a thousand years old.

When she comes back out into the hallway Allegra’s bedroom door is closed. She probably wants Ginny to knock, wants them to have a real chat. Ginny thinks about what she could say, thinks about the path any argument would take and realizes she could sleep for a hundred years. She retreats down the creaky stairs and lets herself out quietly.

The muggle nightbus is fifty minutes slower than apparating, and for once Ginny is glad of it.

A group of muggle boys are up on the top deck with her. They try to talk to her for a bit, whistling and making the odd offensive remark, but Ginny ignores them, and soon they’re out of the central zones and in Greater London. She gets off at her station, and trudges up the dark hill.

James is at the Burrow, his last night there before he leaves for school. _It went faster than it had any right_ _to_ , Ginny thinks sourly. At least she has the house to herself tonight. Hermione had told her that morning without looking up once that she’d be away until September first. That she’d meet them at the platform.

 _But he wants to have breakfast with both of us,_ Ginny had protested, half a second too late. Hermione was already out the door.

At least she’ll have the house to herself tonight. Tomorrow, on the last day of August, she’d pick up James at her parents house, and endure one last hour of Molly’s nagging. But that breakfast was meant to be for the three of them. Ginny had been planning it, quite without meaning to for years.

She unlocks the front door, takes the stairs in the dark up to her room, opens the door and runs face-first into a solid shape. A human shape.

“ _Auugh_!” Ginny manages, before fumbling with her wand, and whacking whoever it is right on the temple.

“Merlin’s hairy ballsack!” Hermione’s voice squeaks “It’s me you idiot!”

Ginny fumbles with the light-switch. Hermione is indeed standing in Ginny’s room, in her stupid-expensive matching pajama set, rubbing her head.

“ _Merlin’s hairy ballsack?_ ” She asks at the same time that Hermione hisses “I thought you were staying at her place!”

They both go quiet. If she wasn’t so confused, Ginny would bet her left arm that Hermione was blushing. Then her brain catches up.

“You know about Allegra?”

It’s definitely a blush now. Hermione must be burning hot from how red she’s turning. She mumbles something down to the ground.

“Come again?” Ginny says, using her Auror voice for want of a better alternative. Hermione meets her eye this time. There’s something fierce burning behind her brown eyes. Ginny is relieved to see their colour.

“Flo’s got a friend in Transport who works in the secretary pool with her” Hermione swallows “I worried when you didn’t come home after Halloween last year-“

“ _Last year?_ ” Ginny squeaks “You’ve been spying on me since _last year_?”

“It’s not spying” Hermione says indignantly “I was worried-“

It occurs to Ginny quite suddenly that this is the closest thing to a real conversation they’ve had in months. Her outrage pops like a soap bubble. She wants to hug Hermione, who’s still spluttering along. “- and sometimes it would be nice to give the person you live with a bit of notice- why are you grinning like that? You look like an idiot.”

“So you’re not going away tomorrow night either?” She asks, ignoring Hermione’s question and her own wild impulse to throw her arms around the woman. She almost wants to hold her hands up and say _‘See! I can behave!’_ \- but that would be acknowledging that there was some way that she wasn’t behaving-

“James wants to have breakfast with both of us for his last morning here” Ginny says. James had wished no such thing - this particular fantasy was all Ginny’s. “Please say you can make it?” Something in her stirs uneasily. _Begging for scraps._ Begging from the woman who’s meant to be her best friend. But Ginny’s happy, happier than she’s been for months, so what was a little grovelling?

Hermione looks troubled. “I don’t know if I can-I have so much to do - our delegation leaves in less than a fortnight-“

“ _Please_ ,” Ginny says, feeling more tired and honest than she has in ages. Why can’t that horrid afternoon become water under the bridge? Hermione had been the one who leaned towards her. Ginny had been as passive as could be. Why can’t they go back to what they were? “It would make us both so happy.”

Hermione looks more uneasy than ever “Alright. I promise.” She looks around as if only realizing how late it is now. Ginny knows it must be in the neighbourhood of one in the morning. “We should get to bed. I’m-” Hermione seems to bite her cheek before she finishes her sentence “Goodnight Ginny”

“Goodnight Hermione” Ginny says, matching her friends gentle inflection.

It’s only after she’s brushed her teeth and is drifting off in bed that it occurs to Ginny to wonder what Hermione was doing in her room.

*

Ginny oversleeps, and is late to pick up James. She was meant to arrive at midday, but it’s afternoon by the time she sits in the garden with some of Molly’s nettle tea steaming from a cup between her hands.

Her son, in typical James fashion, is nowhere to be found. “He probably went for one last look around the lanes” Her mother had said, handing Ginny a plate of freshly baked ginger nut biscuits and herding her out into the sunny front lawn. She’s pleased that Ginny was late. _She always is whenever I slip up,_ Ginny thinks, watching her Mother, _confirms that I’m still a useless child._

She thinks she hears the light tread of James’ runners on the far side of the hedge, where his rabbit enclosure sits, but decides to let him have his last little adventures. He’ll be staying at the townhouse for his whole Christmas break if she has anything to do with it, so let him soak up the Burrow one last time.

“How’s Hermione?” Ginny blinks at Molly, more than a little confused by this opening query. Usually her Mum begins her interrogation with questions about Ginny’s Auror work, gentle digs at her lack of love life, or some new swearword James had supposedly picked up from her. Hermione was one of the few subjects that Molly was neutral on. Ginny knows that her Mother is responsible for their renewed friendship, but something in that always rankles her. Molly had been wise enough not to hold it over her.

“She’s fine,” Ginny answers carefully, wondering what angle the criticism will come from “Just prepping for her Pacific work. The situation is getting pretty hairy,” She nibbles at her biscuit “Last inter-species mediator the local Ministry sent turned up half-drowned two days ago.”

“How?” Molly echoes, eyes going wide “There was nothing in the papers about that.”

Ginny shrugs “They’re trying to keep it quiet. Mermish relations are pretty strained as is. She’ll be fine, Molly”

She doesn’t mention the bites all over the man. Hermione hadn’t told her about that. Putty, of all people, had. He’d heard from his Father’s legal counsel that tensions were more than just _‘a little hairy’_ on the archipelago at the center of this whole fiasco. Ginny had thought at the time that keeping up the pretense of a courtship was worth it for bits of loose information like this alone.

Her Mum meanwhile has tensed at being called by her first name, and Ginny mentally curses herself for the slip. Something broke between them in the months she lived at home with James as a baby. Somewhere between Ginny throwing up in Molly’s kitchen garden every other weekend, and refusing to consider finishing school, something had spoiled. Curdled right in the middle of what used to be nearly a friendship. _The only girls in a family of boys have to stick together._ But now Ginny only vaguely remembers there was a time when she didn’t prickle at every second word Molly said to her.

She’s wondering if there’s anything nice she can say to her Mum to soothe her, and has just decided to compliment her baking when Molly says, quite apropos of nothing-

“Dear, now that James is off to school,” Molly seems to be struggling with her words, which only makes Ginny listen all the harder. Her Mum never struggles with her opinion. Not in the twenty-seven years they’ve known each other. “Have you thought about getting your own place? For you and James?”

Ginny stares at Molly. She’s winding the edge of her apron around her thumb, but in all other respects she seems confident in her suggestion. Like it’s a natural thought process. “What about Hermione?” Ginny asks when her voice comes back to her.

“She’s a grown girl - and I know she helped you with James but-” Here Molly stops twisting her hands in her apron “But maybe it’s time you both got on with your lives? James starting at Hogwarts this year and all. It might be a good chance to get back into the world.”

All of this is said in a warm tone, sweet like a biscuit dunked into lukewarm tea. Ginny stares. Her mother takes that as a cue to continue.

“And how do you know she hasn’t some plans for the future that don’t involve you? She’s still very young and very pretty. Your Dad says there’s a few lads at the Ministry who-”

“ _Stop_.” Ginny resists actually stoppering her ears with her fingers. Molly looks at her with something very much like pity. The idea of any of those ‘lads’ so much as holding hands with Hermione spikes a deep lance of pain into her chest.

“We know how you feel about her sweetheart” Ginny jerks her head up startled, her pain replaced by an entirely new sensation. Shame. _Pining after Granger_ , Malfoy’s voice dances back to her. But Molly doesn’t seem to notice. “You’ve always protected other people- it’s one of your best qualities-”

“Mum-” Ginny begins, but Molly cuts her off.

“But I think whatever that bitch did to her is irreversible. The best any of us can do is be kind. But who knows? Maybe if somebody loves her enough, he could undo it.”

Ginny realizes she’s biting her lip so hard she’s broken skin. Her fingernails dig into her palms. Molly, as oblivious to her adult daughter as ever doesn’t notice this and keeps talking. “Maybe it’s the same for you Ginny. But I do know that the two of you have to give each other some breathing room. You think I’m oblivious, but it’s not healthy the two of you. Maybe it’s just time to move on-”

Ginny’s heard enough.

“I’m going now Molly”

She stands as she says this, setting her tea cup aside. Her Mother blinks at her in obvious surprise, and then annoyance.

“Ginevra, there’s no reason for dramatics-“

“ _James!”_ Ginny bellows in the general direction of the west garden hedge, where she heard the boy breathing quietly, trying to hide and listen to their fight, as she stuffs her arms into her light sport jacket. _“James Alfred Potter! You get here this instant!”_

Her son appears at the gate, looking pale and guilty. She makes a show of checking his luggage while he hugs his grandmother goodbye. It’s mainly so Molly won’t see her tears. She can hear her Mum behind them when James quietly takes her out-stretched hand so she can pull them a little outside the boundaries of The Burrow.

“Ginevra, really-“

At the bottom of the drive she apparates them without turning around.

James lets go of her hand in their living room, eyeing her suspiciously.

“Why are you crying?” He asks “And why did Nan say we shouldn’t live with Hermione?”

“You shouldn’t eavesdrop James” She says, setting down his school trunk near the front door, and wiping her wet face with her sleeve. “It’s bad manners.”

“It’s literally what you do for a living” Her son shoots back, sitting on the arm of Hermione’s favourite reading chair. “Are you crying because she thinks Hermione is bad for you?”

“Has she said that to you?” Ginny asks, feeling new rage pop and crackle inside her.

“Not really” James shrugs “But yeah.” He looks a little uncomfortable and then adds “I told her that Hermione was being weird. And that you were really down.”

Ginny collapses on the sofa. Covers her face with her hands.“You weren’t meant to notice that.”

Her son doesn’t answer, so Ginny lowers her hands to peer at him. He looks pensive and worried, and so much like Harry, despite his new haircut and lack of glasses, that for a moment a whole new set of tears threaten to spring to her eyes. Harry frowned like that when they were contemplating some brand new scheme against Voldemort, or when he was worried about them, or when-

“Is Hermione a bad person?” James asks, so quietly that she has to strain to hear him.

Ginny gets up quickly enough that she gets a little dizzy, takes two quick strides and wraps her arms around him. She says fiercely “She loves us.” She looks down into his brown eyes “She was your Dad’s best friend. So she loves you especially.”

James is like Harry in lots of ways, so while his brow clears a little he still holds her eye. “But is she a bad person?”

“Bad things happened to her and she’s a bit strange-” Ginny begins.

“Because of the war” James supplies, and Ginny nods. They’ve all talked to him a little about what happened, what happened to his Dad, but soon she realizes they are going to have to sit down and go into detail. _Let it wait another year,_ a traitorous, weak part of her whispers, as it does every year. _Let him see us all without that horror for another year yet._

“But she’s good James” Ginny says, thinking of the other one, of begging Hermione, of her moods. Thinks of her in her red party dress at a long ago wedding. “She’s good down to the bone.”

This time James believes her. He leans into her embrace, and even closes his eyes. Ginny is relieved. After a moment he shifts. “Mum?”

“Yeah?” She says, voice still thick and nervous, wondering what part of the war he’s going to ask about, and how little right she has to refuse him this information.

“Do you want to get burgers and rent a movie to cheer up?”

She laughs. James might have his Harry-esque moments, but for the most part he’s an ordinary eleven-year old boy: self-serving and sweet.

*

By the time Hermione unlocks the front door, James is asleep on the couch, full of junk-food and muggle adventure stories, his Hogwarts Express ticket serving as a bookmark for the comic on his stomach. Ginny is in the armchair next to him, finishing up some petty cash forms for work the next day. The two day vacation has been nice, but Robards will expect nothing less than the moon on a silver platter once she’s back at her desk after dropping James off tomorrow.

Hermione pauses when she spots the two of them, and Ginny makes herself fill out the last of her expense columns before looking up and - _oh_.

_Oh._

Hermione’s still in her work coat, the few pins barely holding her hair in its elegant up-do, and she’s not quite smiling, but something fond glitters in her eyes. It feels like any evening before Ginny had ruined things. Ginny doesn’t dare hope, but she looks at the armchair across from her, and wonder of wonders, Hermione puts her handbag down, and sinks into it.Then she closes her eyes.

It’s nearly a gift-wrapped excuse to study her, but Ginny only allows herself a few peeks between finishing up her notes. _She’s still very young and very pretty,_ Molly had said, and Ginny imagines what Hermione might look like to a likely lad at the Ministry. Even slumped on her tasteful living room furniture she’s a study in elegance. Her hair is brown and rich, threaded with the occasional glint of silver, and curled just above her neck. She looks like a minor deity, not like a girl some snotty junior minister might ask out for drinks.

“What time are we leaving tomorrow?” Hermione asks, eyes still closed.

“Nine” Ginny answers “Just to be on the safe side.”

Hermione nods, sinking further into the chair, breathing becoming, to Ginny’s trained Auror ear, just a little bit slower. “Why does it smell like a deep-fryer in here?”

Ginny looks back down to her work, only smirking slightly.

“No idea.”

*

Ginny’s eyes have barely adjusted to the steam on Platform 9¾ when she feels someone punch her in the arm.

Instead of taking the fist and flipping the wizard attached to it top the ground, she shoves it away, bringing down her wand in the same movement to clear away the smoke and-

“Surprise!” Ron’s grin is smug and Ginny resists the urge to deck him after all “Guess the old Auror reflexes aren’t everything they’re puffed up to be eh?”

Ronald is as oblivious to the fact that he nearly lost an arm, as he is to the fact that this really is a surprise. An unpleasant one.  


Behind him she can see George, eyebrows raised, a restraining hand still poised above his younger brother’s shoulder. Further back still, and here she feels stomach sink, she spots her parents fussing over Luna and the antique looking perambulator in front of her.

A classic Weasley family surprise. She should have seen it coming from miles away.

James has already attached himself to George’s side, and Ginny gives up any hope of holding his attention before he leaves for Hogwarts. There’s a delicate cough next to her, and Hermione materializes through the brick barrier. Ron’s smile becomes a little forced. His punch to Hermione’s shoulder is weak. His second _“Surprise!”_ even more so.

“How unexpected,” Is all that Hermione says, and Ginny looks at her for any sign of sarcasm, but the other woman seems absorbed in the red train gleaming in the low light. Ron turns to lead them to the rest of the clan, and only then does Hermione catch her eye. She winks. It helps, and Ginny breathes a few times through her nose until her emotions are under some measure of control again.

“Oh yes she’s already quite attuned to all the thibbles in the area” Luna says in a dreamy voice as Ginny and Hermione reach the group. “She’s got the Lovegood family tastebuds and only my great aunt Agraria couldn’t see them.”

The baby looks up at them from her nest of stitched blankets. She’s got Luna’s big eyes and a tuft of strawberry blonde hair. Ginny’s only met Artemis Weasley once, and that had ended with milk being vomited all over her lap, so she’s always been too busy for another visit. She figures she’ll be there when Artemis wants flying lessons.

Her parents have obviously kept no such reserve.

“We’re still having her for a sleepover on Thursday right?” Arthur says with so much enthusiasm that Ginny fights not to gape at her Dad. In years past he’d get that excited about a muggle car wreck without a legal owner and nothing else.

“Yeah, date night,” Ron says putting a proprietary arm around Luna. They both look more than a little careworn. “It’s been a madhouse since the birth.” Ginny resists contemplating what their date night involves in vain. Probably Snarfgurgler hunting in the moonlight.

Molly is fussing over James again.

“Are you sure you’re not cold dearie?” She asks him, and he nods, but Molly continues to tut at his zip-up sweatshirt and muggle jeans.

“Leave him alone Mum.” She says, bristling a little because she let him out the door dressed like that and “He’s fine.”

Molly glances up at her, and Ginny marvels at how reserved that look is. Usually when they’ve had a fight they’ll trade jabs for a week. It’s almost a routine by now.

“Hello Ginevra,” Is all her Mother says however, and then after an obvious pause “And hello Hermione.”

If Hermione notices Molly’s tone is frostier than usual, she makes no sign. She stands a little away from the Weasley clan anyway. Ginny is the connecting bridge between them. _You’d never guess she spent half her childhood at our house,_ Ginny thinks, and puts the thought aside as always. _It’s just Hermione’s way,_ she reminds herself.

“How do you do Mrs Weasley?” Hermione asks, and there’s definitely something going on now, none of Ginny’s siblings will quite meet her eye. James looks visibly upset. Even Luna’s babble to her baby seems a little forced.

“Fine dear, but-” Molly says in that don’t-mind-me-I’m-just-a-little-housewife way she has, and suddenly Ginny wants to strangle her, wants to slap her face and tell her to behave-

Molly must see some of this in her daughter’s face, because she swallows visibly, then turns back to James “But it’s getting late. Let’s find Teddy and Vicky and get you settled on the train”

But James doesn’t want to sit with his cousins. Ginny is oddly proud of him for saying so, even as she trails behind her family, the small farewell she had planned disappearing like so much smoke. She knows she shouldn’t sulk. James is lucky to have them. He’s lucky to have an uncle he adores as much as George, and grandparents who dote on him, especially when his one surviving parent was essentially useless for the first half decade of his life-

Hermione bumps their shoulders together, and Ginny yanks herself out of this increasingly bitter spiral of thoughts.

They had their breakfast after all. Eggs, sausages and bacon and Hermione sitting with them and actually seeming present in some vital way she hadn’t been the previous months. Making an effort for them. James had drunk his milky tea slowly, looking around at everything in their small kitchen as if memorizing it once more. He’d been pleased with the toast soldiers Ginny made him, happy with the new set of beginner spellbooks he’d gotten, and just content to sit between them, haltingly telling them about the things he looked forward to at Hogwarts.

They finally find an empty compartment, and Ginny watches as Ron and George lug James’ trunk into the train. His face appears at the window a moment later. It’s a little pale. Ginny starts to step forward, but before she can, Ron and George crowd close to the window.

“Now don’t duel anyone in your first year, or try to take on any trolls” Ron says sagely. “And send me an owl once you’re settled in and I’ll come meet you on the grounds” George adds, grinning “I’ve got some merchandise that needs testing- bring some friends.”

“Did you remember to pack enough socks dear?” Molly asks, while Ron continues listing all the foods at tonight’s feast James should pay special attention to.

“Mum?” James says in a tiny voice.

Ginny shoves Ron, who’s mid-description of the third layer of the feast trifle, out of the way unceremoniously. James beckons her closer, so that no-one else can hear.

He’s the colour of oats underneath his freckles. There’s a bit of sweat near his hairline. Ginny touches his cheek with the tips of her fingers and waits. Whatever splinter of worry had wormed its way into his heart, here it was.

“What if it’s awful?” He breathes out. Ginny sees what it costs him to ask this. Her son, confident of everything and everyone the way his Father never was. She looks him straight in the eye.

“It won’t be sweetheart” She touches his nose “But if it is, you write to me, and I’ll come and get you myself.”

He looks at her for a long moment. Ginny holds his gaze and wills him to believe her. She doubts that James will even remember being frightened by tomorrow, but she means it anyway. He nods.

“Deal?” Ginny says, and reaches her other hand up. “Deal.” James answers shaking just three of her fingers with a clammy hand of his own. He used to do that as a toddler, when asking if she’d come back to play with him next weekend. Ginny is surprised he remembers their old secret handshake.

She kisses his cheek. He lets go of her hand to wipe his cheek. “Mum! Gross!” and she steps back grinning, and lets the others say their goodbyes.

By the time the train whistle sounds, James has regained some of his excitement and another boy his age has joined him in the compartment. Muggle-born by the look of his confused parents.

They all stand together and wave as the train begins to move.

Hermione doesn’t look at her again.

*

“Weasley!”

Ginny groans, knowing in her gut that this is about the Hutchison case, there’s been some new, incredibly boring development and she’s got to get out to Berkshire and talk with the whole dull lot of them again-

But Robards doesn’t have the Hutchison file open in front of him. Robards isn’t alone either. Finch sits in front of the desk. The man doesn’t do her the courtesy of turning around, but still: it can only mean one thing.

“Is this about the Malfoy investigation?”

“Is this about the Malfoy investigation, _sir._ ” Robards corrects her, and Ginny resists the urge to roll her eyes. She’s learned the hard way that sassing Robards only flies when it’s just the two of them.

“Sorry governor.” She says “But is it?”

“Finch” Is all Robard says. The other Auror finally deigns to look at her. He hands her a file. Ginny snatches it out of his hands and scans the first few pages. It’s dirty business alright, although on a surprisingly mid-level scale, but all of it is-

“Incidental evidence” Ginny says “None of this will stick in the Wizgamot.”

“Have you kept up regular social outings with Mr de Putte?” Robards asks. Ginny crosses her arms.

“As a matter of fact I have,” She says, remembering their broom-polo match last fortnight. Putty was a terrible loser. “Thought some continuity might come in handy.”

Finch scowls. “Wasting department galleons does not an Auror make.”

“Don’t see you hanging around with anyone that could get close to Malfoy in a social setting,” Ginny answers smartly “So if you want to put on a short skirt and hit the town with Putty, be my guest.”

Robards lets out a huff of what might be laughter.Finch doesn’t react at all.

“Could you reasonably be Mr de Putte’s plus one to a hunting weekend?” He asks after a moment. “Malfoy hosts a few friends and business associates at his estate every year. They hunt mostly non-magical creatures. Deer, I’m told.”

“And Putty’s going to this?” Ginny has a hard time imaging Gaspard near nature or mud. He wears a lot of white.

“We’ve attached him to a small Balkan outfit that specializes in harvesting ancient forests. A part of his father’s portfolio I believe.”

“And they have an invite?”

“Malfoy is keen to make their acquaintance” Robards grins. “Girlfriends usually don’t interest him. And we need someone inside the Manor. We need to see if we’ll find anything if we issue a warrant.”

*

She tells Hermione she’s going away on an overnight business trip to Wales.

It's not a complete lie because she actually has no idea in what part of the country Malfoy Manor actually is. No one does. Part of the ancient confounding spells around it. Ginny learns that the foundations have been around since the Norman Invasion from a huge, dry tome titled _Notable_ _Wizarding Architecture of the British Isles_. The book confirms in many words what Ginny already guessed: you can apparate in and out, but finding your way with a map? Good luck to you friend.

There’s a driver to meet them at the outer edge of the park. He opens the door of a car that the Ministry favours, spacious and luxurious. Ginny hates it right down to its expensive leather stink. Only Malfoy would keep a personal chauffeur when he had literally a dozen other options of transport.

“Are we almost there?” Ginny asks, craning her head to see beyond the flanking pine forest, and adjusting the tailored pants she wore against Putty’s suggestion. He shakes his head. He’s chopped his hair off since their last run in with Malfoy and looks better for it. The tooth gem is gone too to Ginny’s genuine delight. She’s not entirely sure, but she thinks Putty might have swallowed it by accident.

Hermione hadn’t cared much about her business trip. Hadn’t cared _at all_ if Ginny was honest with herself.

The older woman was in some sort of tricky negotiations with the local British embassy. “It’s a right old mess,” Is all she’d say when Ginny had asked, after not being asked a single question about her own work “Anything we touch on that side of the world stinks of imperialism, but the situation’s gotten completely out of hand.”

For a moment a shadow had passed over Hermione’s face. She looked old, her skin paper-thin and the nasty shadow of a crone shimmering underneath. Ginny had blinked and the vision was gone. But not the fear that came with it. “But you’ll be safe?” Ginny had asked before she could help herself. This had earned her nothing but a very tired, and oddly cunning smile.

Whenever she thinks of that island Ginny feels something turn slowly and nervously in her stomach. She wishes Hermione wasn’t going personally. She wishes she would come home.

 _Stop it_ , she admonishes herself.

They’d had an quiet week without James. He sent them a letter on Friday, messy and short, about all the new friends he’d made, about the giant squid in the lake and the ghosts in the halls. He’d been sorted into Gryffindor before the Sorting Hat so much as touched his head. Hermione had listened while Ginny read it out loud. They’d written back together, Hermione drawing a little map of St. Jerome, the biggest island of the archipelago she was to visit, and Ginny listing the ins and outs of their week. They’d watched TV together, and it had almost, almost been like before.

Except Ginny couldn’t be effortlessly in Hermione’s space anymore. Couldn’t shove her feet into the older woman’s lap. Couldn’t waggle her eyebrows about the low budget reality TV show they were watching. It all meant something now. It was all loaded with something she desperately wanted take back.

So they’d both sat, a little stiffly, watching muggle morons making declarations of love, and it was so close to the rhythm of their old life that Ginny kept hoping at some point they’d both relax, they’d crack a joke- _something_ would happen-

But all that happened was that Hermione had begun nodding off, and Ginny had turned off the TV, and nudged the other woman to go to bed.

In the car with Gaspard, Ginny briefly thinks she spots something in the darkening trees. A flash of light. Like the reflection of the sun on glass. She cranes her head around, but they’ve already turned a corner and all she sees is more trees.

Eventually, Malfoy Manor comes into view. There’s a cruel-looking iron fence that runs around the whole inner park. The Manors many windows are dark like so many eyes. Ginny shivers despite herself.

“Do you want a jacket?” Putty asks. She spares him a quick glance. He’s looking at her, more specifically the open collar of her cream silk shirt, and the goosebumps that have risen there. Putty’s growing crush is manageable, helpful even, so she chooses honesty.

“Not cold,” She answers quietly “Malfoy’s aunt just tortured my friends in there.”

*

They don’t see Malfoy himself, instead a little elf, older than the hills but younger than the house, shows them to a cottage, a little ways outside the fenced park.

“Master Malfoy is away on business matters until dinner, Miss” Is all the house-elf who met them at the cottage will squeak when Ginny asks her. She’s about to ask more, before Putty takes her hip into a sharp pinch.

“Look at this woodwork darling!” He says with admiration. The little house-elfglows with happiness.

“Master de Putte has a sharp eye. That bed was part of a set, purchased by Master Malfoy’s late father himself. He had a keen eye for antiques. Gilly must see to the other guests now, but hopes Masters and Misses will make themselves comfortable.”

Ginny bristles, but lets herself lean into Gaspard, until they hear the door close. Thinks of a leather-covered book she wrote her deepest secrets into. _Lucius Malfoy and his eye for antiques indeed._

She shoves Putty away. He doesn’t stumble, only taking two elegant steps back, hands raised as if to calm her. “You can’t ask house-elves too many questions about their masters” He says, as though Ginny hasn’t worked out why he interrupted her by now. “Even the dullest of them will get suspicious. And suppose she tells Master Draco about the nosy-nosy red-headed Miss?” Putty drops the accent again. “We both know there’s a chance he’ll kick you out on sight at dinner, so-” He flutters his hands, like he’s dispersing so many flies “Go ruin my good name.”

He taps the bed again. “This is the ugliest, most over-wrought bedframe I’ve ever seen by the way.”

Ginny has stared at him during this little speech, and now lets out the most unexpected snort of laughter of her life.

Putty doesn’t smile in return. But she thinks he looks pleased.

*

If Malfoy’s hiding anything, he’s not hiding it in the Manor, or he’s got hiding places that Malfoy Senior didn’t know about.

Ginny has scanned nearly the whole house using a combination of her wand, and the half-dozen set of lemon-sized glass orbs issued to her for recording purposes. If there’s anything she missed, someone at the department will pick it out of the copy of Malfoy Manor clouding five of the six formally clear balls. Someone well paid to keep their mouth shut about how illegal all of this is.

She whistles a progression of notes, and five orbs float away from her, across the lawn and over the high gate, on their way to what looks like a small hat case at the foot of her bed.

She tosses the last orb from hand to hand for a moment, looking around the deserted dungeon she’s ended up in. It obviously once served as someone’s potion room. There are cauldrons lined up along the far wall, and a vast rainbow of ingredients in many jars. Someone had a sense of beauty- the dried herbs are hung at different heights and almost look like an upside-down coral garden. But even though there’s not even a hint of dust on anything, Ginny can’t shake the feeling that no-one has brewed anything here in a long time.

The only light filtering into the room flickers briefly. It comes from a grimy tiny high-set window, facing out from what Ginny supposes must be the back of the house. Someone’s legs have passed it briefly.

Someone’s walking on the back-lawn.

 _It’s most likely some of the other guests, stretching their legs before dinner,_ Ginny thinks as she climbs the dungeon stairs, two at a time. _In all likelihood it will be Putty out there, wandering the grounds, having a smoke, and I’ll look like an idiot._

But deep down she knows that won’t be it. She wonders again if Harry ever felt like this at the apotheosis of any of his famous school adventures. If he just _knew_. Yet another topic they never got around to talking about. Robards told her once that’s what makes a good Auror. The knowing.

Because if that isn’t Malfoy out there, taking a leisurely walk when he’s meant to be away for another three hours, she’ll eat the crystal orb she’s jammed into her bag.

At the side of the house she takes a moment to check herself. She’s still in her casual wear, reading bag slung over her shoulder with a picnic blanket, a book ( _Cassandra and Her Cat_ \- one of those twee classics that even Hermione wrinkles her nose at) and her hand just loosely holding the last recording orb. If Malfoy spots her she has her excuses lined up.

Something shifts at the edge of her vision.

Ginny looks around the white-pebbled drive again, and the dark wall of forest behind the open gates. Empty. But for a moment she thought she saw that weird glint again. Another guest being chauffeured up the drive?

Maybe Malfoy has decorative pixies in his gardens. Ginny thinks that would be a Malfoy thing to do. A gift for his wife, and a game caretaker to go with them because no one in this house would have the slightest idea how to handle a magical creature. Pixies liked shiny things, even the high-bred decorative variety. So maybethere’s a nest of baubles strung up in the trees somewhere, just out of reach of Malfoy’s house-elf?

Ginny gives the gently swaying trees one last look, then keeps edging along the house, turning away from the front drive.

It’s cool in the shade at the side the house, but the back faces the slow autumn sunset. She can hear Malfoy’s voice- he’s arguing with someone. Once in a while there’s a reply too low for Ginny to catch. The bottom of the Manor is made from old stone, a foundation that’s much older than the rest of the place. She touches the worn wall and chances a look around the corner.

“- and _no_ , there’s no point in talking to chieftains when you can simply command them-”

Malfoy’s back is turned to her, he’s obviously pacing while arguing, hands gesturing this way and that. There’s someone a little further behind him in a lounge-chair, the kind muggles like to put around their puddles of water ( _Pools_ , Harry’s voice comes back to her, gently correcting her Dad on some far-off summer day), a tray of afternoon tea sandwiches within easy reach. The sun is bright enough after the shade of the house that Ginny has a tough time even distinguishing Malfoy’s bright hair. She squints, and wishes her eyes would adjust faster.

“And why should they get to behave like this- when every wizard child knows by the time they can walk that manipulating muggles by using magic is dangerous and foolish-”

“But that’s the point Draco” A quiet and oddly familiar voice interrupts “They are not creatures who use magic- they are magic. Asking them not to use it would be like asking us not to breathe.”

Malfoy groans and throws himself into the empty chair on the other side of the silver service set. “You’re being willfully naive. I hate it when you get like this.” He crosses his arms over his chest. Ginny wishes she dared crane her head around more to see the person Malfoy was blocking from her vision. _Wait it out,_ she tells herself, and as always in these moments the voice seems to be Harry’s when he taught them at DA. _Wait it out and you’ll see._

“Oh stop sulking,” Now there’s amusement in the woman’s voice. And it’s on the tip of Ginny’s tongue who she is, because there’s something so familiar about the eyeroll almost stitched into the words-

Malfoy moves forward to lean his elbows on his knees and Ginny sees her.

 _Hermione_.

Hermione, dressed in her usual work clothes, drink in hand and smiling at Draco Malfoy like he was as dear to her as James or Ginny or any of the Weasley clan.

“I know what I’m doing Draco.” Hermione reaches forward, sets down her drink and actually takes the gits hands. She ducks her head, obviously attempting to catch his eyes. “You’re very sweet to worry, but I really do.”

Draco says something too low to hear and Hermione winces, but doesn’t let go of his hands. _She’s never held both my hands,_ Ginny thinks apropos of nothing. Something turns unpleasantly in her stomach. “This is different.” Hermione says very firmly. The sun picks out the gold in her hair.

There’s a _click_ next to Ginny’s ear, and then a whir of machinery.

By the time she’s flinched back into the shade of the house, the second photographer has clicked the shutter of his massive camera. There’s three of them, all still partially camouflaged into the green lawn, but all wearing the same loud style of suit, hair slicked back and stinking of expensive aftershave. They must have been following her since the edge of the park, great big buzzing flies that they are, with their big cameras ( _glinting_ ) flashing in the sun.

 _Skeeter’s men,_ Ginny has time to think, before the first stunning spell hits the shortest one.

“Draco! _Stop!_ ” Hermione’s voice follows, shrill and panicked, making something clench low in Ginny’s stomach. _You’re very sweet to worry Draco._ But Ginny’s already on the move, Auror training overriding her brain.

She makes it across the lawn at the front of the house, all the while tensing, hand still wrapped around the glass of the last orb. Someone will see her now, someone will shout _“You! Stop!”_

But no one does. Her footsteps crunch through the gravel. The cottage is full of quiet leaf-light when she closes the door behind her. Somewhere above she can hear Putty moving around, living whatever life he does and thinking whatever thoughts he has when she’s not forcing him to help her spy.

It’s only here, with her back pressed against the cool wood of the oak door that she allows herself to picture it once again in her mind.

Hermione Granger, the hardest and most important friend Ginny’s ever had to work for, on the back lawn of Malfoy Manor with its owner, talking like they were the best of friends. Like they were family.


	3. Wren

Putty finds her rolling her little hard-shell muggle carry-on down the worn wooden steps. The cottage is still full of gentle evening light. Crickets have begun to chirp outside.

"Whoa! Whoa!" He says, holding out both arms as if that pathetic gesture has any power over Ginny. He's half-changed into a dinner shirt. The skin at his wrists is pale. "What happened? Are you alright?"

Ginny looks up at him, mainly to frown, but times it right with her step down the worn lip of the stairs. She feels her ankle roll underneath her and gives a sharp squeak of pain.

Putty actually apparates himself behind her to catch her the dramatic bastard. She doesn't bother telling him she's fallen hundreds of meters on various Quidditch pitches. She's got to keep moving - and besides - dashing her brains out has never stopped her for long.

He's still blocking her way though.

"I have to go" She says. He doesn't move. Ginny reaches for her wand, stowed inside her sleeve and - _shit_. It's still upstairs in her tote bag. She turns back, but before she can take a step, Putty's grabbed her by both arms. He's obviously also realized she doesn't have her wand.

"What's wrong?" He asks urgently. When she doesn't reply, he gives her a little shake "Tell me!" The hard edge in his voice surprises Ginny. She wouldn't have thought someone like Gaspard de Putte would have had any firm edges anywhere in his person. But then she's obviously no judge of character, least of all about those she spends the most time with.

Ginny swallows and tries to think how she will articulate what she saw. It would take hours to explain- about Hermione- about herself- and she can't-

She shoves Putty away as hard as she can, throwing in a little twisting flick she learnt in close combat training. He lets go of her arms and stumbles back, knocking against the flat wooden paneling.

The push has upset Ginny's balance too, and she stumbles, slipping on the staircase after all, the cottage becomes a blur, until a hard clip on the back of her head stops her fall.

They stare at each other.

Ginny's mouth tastes of blood, and her head and tailbone throb.

She gives in, and starts to cry.

*

"You can't leave now" Putty says for the dozenth time, his soothing pitch and terrible cup of tea doing little to calm either of their nerves. "Aside from everything, I saw the last guests arrive an hour ago. They'll have put the wards back up."

His hand twitches on the sofa as if to reach for Ginny's balled-up fist. He masters himself and she's relieved. She'd hate to hit him again.

"Besides. It's happened." He says "And you still have a job to do. What do you think clown commando will say if you skive off?"

Despite herself, Ginny feels her lips twitch.

" _Clown commando?_ "

"You Aurors take yourselves much too seriously" Putty sniffs prissily "If you weren't such an old hand at broom polo, I'd have seriously suffered."

Ginny snorts quite without meaning to, and wipes her face on her sleeve. Putty makes an exaggerated show of wrinkling his nose, and offers her a real-life silk handkerchief. It makes her snort again.

"There she is." Putty says, as though Ginny blowing her nose into his monogrammed token of wealth is the sun coming out between the clouds. "There's the elegant witch I've been dating."

He glances past Ginny and frowns. "Now run along upstairs - we're late."

She gets up, feeling remarkably less shaky than when she sat down. Her bum still hurts from where she fell, but her head only when she presses her fingers into the edge of her hair. Putty's gone back to not meeting her eyes, and doing a spot-on impression of a rich, stupid heir, with little to no capacity for empathy.

"Gaspard" She says, and the impression breaks when he looks up. He reminds her of Harry at their kitchen table those first few summers, unsure whether he was allowed to be there. Unsure of everything that contained even trace elements of kindness. "Thanks."

"You've got snot on your cheek. Make sure you get that." He answers mildly. She flips him off before she turns away, but can't help feeling slightly better.

*

By the time they cross the closely clipped lawn - Putty in a smart muggle suit in vogue with purebloods recently, and Ginny in a champagne dress that shimmers in the twilight - they're both a little embarrassed.

Putty's pretending to be engrossed with his cigarette, but Ginny can only look apprehensively ahead at the glowing windows of Malfoy Manor. The grass is already damp underfoot. She's sure they could have requested the driver to chauffeur them up the gravel drive- but Ginny is grateful for this last moment to think. She has to remember her reasons for being here. Malfoy's shady business deals. Nothing about Hermione's presence affected that. Nothing about it mattered.

 _But it does,_ Ginny thinks as they reach the gravel court. _It matters more than anything that's happened in months. What if she's in on it with him? What if they've been laughing behind my back for years? Worse- what if she's in danger? I thought she was safe all these years- what if she never escaped her little cell in Malfoy Manor? What if-_

 _Malfoy's shady business deals._ Ginny cuts herself off very firmly as they mount the steps to the front door.

She won't spiral into hand-wringing worry. _She won't._

Spiraling was Molly's forte. Spiraling was her teenage self, locked in the Great Hall while Harry went to his death. Ginny of now _acts_. One moment after the next. That's who she is. Who she has become with sweat and blood.

They're greeted in the Tudor entrance hall, not by the little house-elf, but by an actual butler. He takes Putty's coat and Ginny's shawl with a little flourish, after which both items melt into the paneled image of a sixteenth century lady riding a white horse in a stylized meadow dotted with blue flowers. She winks at Ginny, now fondling a eggshell pigment copy of her shawl.

 _Ancient enchantment rather than quick household-charm,_ Ginny judges, staring back at the lady. The butler must be a squib. A fashionable statement these days. Malfoy is showing off - _but for who?_

They're shown into a vast shadowy hall armored with paintings and artifacts. A long, dark table, already half-filled with guests stands at its center in front of a gigantic stone fireplace. At its head, she recognizes Daphne Malfoy, her hair in an elegant up-sweep but looking tired even in the favorable light. More squib servants move around, dispensing drinks and laying out entrees. Candles float in the air, and for a moment Ginny wonders if, like the rest of them, Malfoy longs for the simpler days of Hogwarts. The low murmur of their fellow diners and low candlelight almost - _almost!_ \- cloak them until they reach their assigned seats half-way down the table.

"Ginevra? Ginevra Weasley!"

Ginny winces, over-corrects and turns her wince into a stuttering little wave at the woman seated across from her.

"Pansy" She says, noticing with some pride that her voice comes out reassuringly normal - even cordial. "Pansy Parkinson."

"What an absolutely fantastic shock!" Pansy continues, her eyes tracking Putty as he pulls out Ginny's chair, waits for her to sit, before sitting himself. She's kept her hair in the same sharp bob-cut she favored at school. Her make-up is better. The winged eyeliner doesn't take up her entire eyelid anymore.

Putty nods to her, then waves down a server and hands Ginny a little flute of champagne. "Gaspard" He says, lifting his glass genially "Gaspard de Putte."

"Oh I know who _you_ are," Pansy purrs, and Ginny has to hide her huff of involuntary laughter by taking a big swig of champagne. Some things really haven't changed after all.

Pansy's focus shifts back to her anyway. It's not unlike being hunted by a very sharp-eyed owl. "Now what in Merlin's name are you doing here Ginny?" She reaches a limp hand forward as if to touch Ginny across the scattering of canapes on the table, and continuing before she can answer. "I can call you Ginny can't I? We're practically old chums." She angles her head to the rest of the room. "Draco only ever invites the most dreadful bores to these things."

 _Well you're here,_ Ginny doesn't say, but Pansy seems to hear it anyway, leaning back in her chair with a satisfied smile, before her gaze slides away once more.

"Now naturally I know why you're here Mr de Putte" She bats her eyelashes and even Ginny has to admit the effect is good. "But I thought that story about you two lovebirds-" She gestures between them with her own glass "- was just a little concoction from the Aurors office to spy on dear Draco? She's barely even one of us."

Ginny's momentarily too stunned to realize Pansy is waiting for her to reply this time. _So much for pureblood manners!_

But Putty seems to take it all in stride, smiling and raising his own glass to Pansy."All the pureblood girls I dated bored me within the first hour of our meeting." He says easily "Perhaps Ginevra is just _very_ interesting."

She almost kicks him under the table for the innuendo. _Purebloods_ , she thinks. _And yet-_

And yet Malfoy had found it within himself to slum it with a mudblood. To have Hermione's touch on his face. Perhaps they were sleeping together. _Some odd form of survivor's trauma?_ The low lurch in her stomach hasn't quite passed before Ginny discards the idea. She still thinks she knows Hermione well enough to think this scenario unlikely.

"Maybe you haven't tried the right purebloods?" Pansy's saying, lighting a cigarette on a floating candle half a head above her - and she really is shameless. Ginny lets her very real scowl about both their language stand in for the part she's playing. The new girlfriend. But Pansy just gives her another one of those disconcerting smiles that say _'now, now- it's really just us chickens here'_. Is she a Legitimis? Ginny cannot recall it being mentioned in her dossier.

Thankfully, at that moment the handsome wizard next to Pansy sees his chance to introduce himself. He's a barrister at an arcane law firm in London, very keen to make Putty's acquaintance, and drape an arm around Pansy's shoulders. The wizard next to Ginny turns out to be the representative of a Japanese confectionery company, and he draws her into a mostly good-natured marketing pitch to be the face of a new pumpkin soda. Apparently a big chunk of his teenage wizarding market are fans of "the True Love of the Boy Who Lived" She's refused hundreds of deals like this over the years, but for the first time is grateful for one being pitched.

She takes her cue to raise her eyebrows at the idea of a photo-campaign styling her as a Pre-Raphealite muse. "The Lady of Pumpkin Fizz Lake huh?" She says and has the pleasure of flustering the poor man. It's almost too easy. She wonders, not for the first time, if Harry had lived what he would have said to this life. She has never quite shaken the feeling that he'd be a mile more gracious about the fame that trailed them all like a bad smell. He probably would have found a way to turn it into something helpful.

When she glances over the table awhile later, she finds Pansy is still watching her, smoking her cigarette, eyes aglow with some secret knowledge.

*

Malfoy himself only shows up as the main course is being served. He sweeps in, dressed in a simple black dress-robe, and shakes the hands of the guests closest to him, before leaning down to exchange a peck with his wife.

"Sorry for the delay everyone" Is the only explanation he gives before raising his glass to them. "To the hunt!"

"To the hunt!" Everyone echoes, volume bolstered by drink.

Ginny leans into Putty's shoulder, feeling him tense, then put a heavy arm around her, waiting for the moment Malfoy spots her -

He pauses briefly as their eyes meet, then he continues his conversation with the white-haired gentleman to his left. A land-owner from Yorkshire according to Finch's files. There was the largest unicorn herd in continental Europe running about the place - at least last time anyone from the Ministry was allowed to check.

Putty's breathing has become strangely even next to her. She gives their surroundings another glance. Pansy's deep in conversation with a regal old woman to Putty's right thank Merlin. But everything else seems just the same- a ghastly pureblood dinner party- so she licks her lips to ask him _'What's wrong?'_ but before she can he rests his hand on her thigh. He looks at her once, almost scowling, then turns back to the lawyer.

 _Oh Merlin._ She's going to have to get a handle on whatever that was sooner rather than later. A passing attraction could be useful- an infatuation was a liability.

Malfoy doesn't linger once dessert is cleared. It's only after Putty gives her another little weak pat on the thigh and begins to get up to follow him, that Ginny realizes the evening will now divide based on gender. The men will retire with Malfoy for a smoke, and the women will move into the drawing room. It's as good a place as any to gather information, but suddenly Ginny can't face it. She'll just as likely give away information tonight as she is to gather it. Hermione's face in the sunset swims into her thoughts again.

" _Go,_ " She whispers to Putty under the guise of a kiss on the cheek, ignoring his warm hand at her hip. "Find out what you can."

Then she flees.

*

Putty's not back at the cottage until well after midnight, stumbling in slightly drunk, and missing Ginny completely.

She doesn't mind. She sits in the dark of their little parlor for hours, watching the lights of the Manor dim one by one, until only a few remain.

_What is Malfoy up to? And how is Hermione involved?_

She wishes she could ask either of them outright.

*

The next morning is grey and rainy. Ginny is reminded once again: they are in September now. Summer is over, her son is at Hogwarts, and Hermione has lied to her.

The hunting party gathers on the gravel court out the front of the Manor just after dawn. Most of the group have horses, but one of the flashier Indian businessmen has something that looks like a huge cat. A few other significant others have shown up, all attempting to look alert and fashionable in the cold air and light drizzle. Ginny wraps her old cardigan tighter around herself, stamps her feet and wonders why they are all expected to be here. Another reason to thank Merlin the Weasley's are still considered blood-traitors in these circles. She spots a flash of Malfoy's blonde head as he mounts a glossy chestnut mare. His wife is nowhere to be seen. Ginny wonders where their son is.

Someone nudges her shoulder.

"Here" Pansy hands her a steaming mug "You look like you need it."

She sips from her own mug. When Ginny continues to stare at the drink in her hands, Pansy rolls her eyes, huffing- " _Oh for Merlin's sake_ " - and switches their cups.

Ginny wipes the print of Pansy's lipstick off the rim then takes a cautious sip. It's coffee, strong and spiced with something -

"Cardamom" Pansy says, cupping her hands around her own mug and bringing it to her chest "Our nanny used to make it this way. Said it was good for us."

"I didn't know you had siblings" Ginny says cautiously.

"They're both a decade younger than me" Pansy shrugs "The elder is graduating from Durmstrang next year."

There's a low whistle and a clatter of hooves. Putty throws her a dashing smirk as he turns his mount. He's surprisingly confident with the animal. Ginny lifts a few fingers in return, keeping her smile small, knowing Pansy is watching both of them. They see the party cross the green, then disappear into the trees towards the lake. Ginny turns to look at Pansy.

"Let's go to the library. It's the warmest room in the house." Pansy says, looping her arm through Ginny's as though they really are old friends "I promise I won't bite."

*

Pansy orders breakfast for them from Gilly with smart aplomb - at least for someone who barely eats a bite of it. Ginny meanwhile is ravenous. She makes her way through the rashers of bacon, the eggs, even most of the grilled mushrooms, without pausing once. She knows it's rude, but her full mouth gives her more time to try and work out what the hell Pansy wants with her.

She's already decided on dropping by Hermione's office in the hours before the hunting party returns, but this is interesting enough to delay a little. Pansy obviously has something to say.

"You're sniffing around here because of Granger aren't you?"

Whatever she expected Pansy to say, it wasn't that. Ginny wipes her mouth with a napkin, takes a sip of her juice, and carefully keeps the shock off her expression.

"I always thought that was an odd bit of business" Pansy says as if Ginny had confirmed her suspicions "Draco got real snippy the first time I caught her here. Like it wasn't a shock!"

Ginny remains silent, willing Pansy to say more, but wary of startling her out of whatever this conspiratorial mood was.

"Well we thought the girl had some dormant kink. Slave girl, dirty girl-" Pansy waves her cigarette-tipped hand around vaguely, even as Ginny balls her own, before continuing "We all heard a few stories during the war. The Lestranges weren't shy about their tastes."

Ginny swallows. Thinks of Hermione at seventeen. She'd had a habit of winding her hair up around her wand. It had seemed practical and Ginny had tried to copy her once - but her own hair was too sleek to hold the wood. Hermione hadn't done it to show off her neck, even though when Ginny thinks of her these days at school, this is the image she favors. She'd been a child. A bossy, nervy child locked in with the Lestranges, and their _tastes_.

"But I think Draco is actually a little frightened of her." Pansy continues, blowing a cloud of smoke over her own shoulder. "He's a dolt, but he's my dolt. I know you lot have cast him as some grand villain - but mark my words, whatever him and Granger are up to - she's the lead."

Ginny blinks, makes the effort to unclench her hands "But how-"

"I saw her once you know" Pansy says, and for the first time there's something reserved in her voice. Ginny leans a little closer. _Here we are then,_ Harry's voice dances past her. _Here's what she really wants to say._ "She was leaving the grounds and I'd apparated in. She took me like this-" Pansy clasps her own neck "And told me if I ever breathed a word about her visits to any of you lot, she'd tear my throat out and eat it." Pansy's hand is still tight around her own throat. Her cigarette has gone out. She doesn't appear to have noticed. "And she meant it you see? You don't grow up in our set without knowing when someone means it."

Ginny stares at her old classmate. The Hogwarts Pansy she remembers next to Hermione's thoughtful image is a ridiculous creature - a miniature Bellatrix Lestrange in all but skill- so when did she become this frightened young woman in front of her?

"Pansy-" She begins, unsure of where the words will go, but something compelling her. Here was someone Harry would have helped without needing to be told why. Ginny's had the explanation all but laid out for her on a gleaming dish, but she still stumbles. "If there's anyone you're afraid of-" She breaks off and wonders if she should start again. Pansy Parkinson has ample reason to be afraid of the whole Ministry. "If something happened to you during the war-"

Pansy's defenses go back up so fast that Ginny has to dig her nails into the skin of her thighs to avoid letting out a groan of frustration. _Blundered it!_

"Everything's just fine with me, Weasley." Pansy says, eyes black and flat in the way Ginny definitely remembers from school. "Just make sure Granger's on her leash. I fancy her bite is worse than her bark."

*

It's eleven by the time Ginny apparates into the vast main hall of the Ministry. Though it's a Saturday, the place is buzzing with a low level of activity. A thin cloud of flying messages pollutes the air around her. Everyone is paying for a nice slow summer.

The rest of her breakfast with Pansy had been polite but cautiously empty. Malfoy's wife had found them during their second cup of coffee. Daphne had spoken, mostly to Pansy, about the upkeep of the lower wood-imps, and even a little of Scorpius. She looked tired, and seemed relieved when Ginny declined her invitation for a walk around the grounds. "Lots of work to catch up on" She'd said, and caught the way Daphne frowned. What sort of spy talked about their work in front of the people they were spying on?

Ginny wondered if the technique would pay off in the long run. Hide in plain sight. It had once- but that was Yorkshire, and the wizard in question hadn't opened a newspaper in two decades.

Anyway, the lie got her out of the Manor, and into another chauffeured car ordered by Daphne. No apparating within a mile of the grounds was a new security measure put in by Malfoy himself apparently. Ginny makes a mental note to include that in her report. Today at least she has no urgent paperwork, but she would bet her right arm that Hermione does. Urgent paperwork followed that woman like a bad curse.

Flo isn't at her desk and Ginny momentarily hopes that Hermione won't be either. But when she knocks at the door to the inner office she hears a weary "Come in!"

Hermione looks up up from the parchment spilling over her desk and she doesn't quite smile, but every part of her face seems to threaten it, like a low approaching storm. It's precisely the kind of non-expression Ginny would have read like an ancient text a few months ago, teasing out meanings from every line. Imagining things. _Pining after Granger._

"Ginny. Thank god." Hermione pushes off her reading glasses, shoves the parchment surrounding her away. For one terrible moment she looks as lost as Ginny feels. "May I-?"

Ginny closes the last few steps between them and folds Hermione into her arms. She feels the tense set of her shoulders. Feels Hermione carefully bring up one light hand between her shoulder blades. In her minds eye she sees Hermione reach forward and take Malfoy's hands. _Trust me,_ she'd said. Ginny had trusted her, and look where that had gotten them.

She makes herself step back after a moment. It's the first time in ages- maybe ever- that she's the one to break and embrace. Hermione seems to realize this too, because she frowns a little and asks "Is something wrong?"

Ginny still holds her upper arms, and it's easy - too easy - to pull Hermione towards her, pause for a moment, and hover close enough to feel each others breath. Hermione's eyes are brown and her pupils dilate under Ginny's gaze.

They've both frozen in place. _We're in strange new lands_ , Ginny thinks. Just as she wonders whether she's brave enough to simply lean in, Hermione turns her face. Her breathing is shallow and her hands clutch at Ginny tightly.

"You have to go."

Ginny can only gape at her "Wha-"

"You have to go right now." Hermione punctuates this by shoving her away. She covers her own face with both hands. She's shaking. Ginny takes a step towards her. "Ginny. Please." She says again, still blocking her eyes. Her fingernails look like they're about to draw blood.

"But-"

A flock of birds flutter into being around Hermione's head. They swing slow circles around her head. Ginny stops mid-step and watches them with her mouth open. They're wrens. All the same blue flashing colour. A beautiful enchantment. A damn _tricky_ enchantment too, especially in the middle of a panic attack, or whatever is happening to her friend. Hermione hisses a spell under her breath and they form a column that turns - with a loud _swish_ \- and hurtles at Ginny.

She throws her arms back and apparates on the spin, before the first of the tiny beaks can peck her.

The forest canopy and Malfoy's black car blink into focus. She's landed on her back, and her new bruises smart.

"Back already miss?" The driver asks her, looking up from his newspaper.

*

Putty starts talking as soon as he's released his steaming horse to a waiting stable-hand.

"Whatever he's up to, Draco Malfoy can _hunt_."

She lets him take her arm as they cross the green back to the cottage. She lets him explain the route of the hunt, the leaps of the deer, the lunch they had -

He deposits her easily in the parlor, and Ginny sits on the hard silk-covered furniture and wonders for the first time whether it might not be easier to learn to love Putty. He's already half-gone on her. She could probably fan it into something. Molly would be happy, and her Dad would get over the disappointment of her marrying a pureblood. James would like him too, given enough time. They could practice Quidditch together, and wasn't Hermione always worrying that James lacked a constant male role model-

Hermione. In her minds eye: always _Hermione_. Hermione; framed by bramble bushes. Hermione, cooking dinner, reading her book, ignoring Ginny, laughing with Ginny, her best friend, her dearest friend, the one person aside from James she'd do anything for -

Ginny leans over her legs, folds her arms over her head, and screams into the fabric at her thigh.

*

The news breaks the next day.

The photos receive their own two-page spread in the _Daily Prophet_ , horribly crisp and still frantically moving: one of Hermione, holding both of Malfoy's hands in the sunset, a second smaller print of Malfoy hurtling spells at the photographers, while Hermione throws one tiny black and white arm around his torso.

_'SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY'_

The headline is painfully Skeeter. Ron is fond of saying the woman gets battier with every word she writes. Ginny and Hermione had had more than one happy morning laughing over their latest supposed escapades in the morning paper. But this one makes her sick, especially after it's all but flung at her across the Sunday breakfast table at Malfoy Manor by Pansy. The other guests' conversations die like someone has extinguished a match. Next to her Putty tenses.

" _What in Merlin's name is the meaning of this?_ " Pansy doesn't give her a chance to answer. "Daffy's still in bed. She's had another bad morning. I thought we decided that this was exactly the sort of thing that shouldn't happen."

"Pansy-" Ginny begins.

"I want you out of here" Pansy's face is an ugly blotchy red. The way she's angling her wand isn't truly damning as Unforgivable-ready, but the message is still painfully clear. A few older guests begin to rise. "Your lot cause nothing but trouble."

"Pansy-" Ginny starts again, holding up both hands. It's at least a year in Azkaban to threaten an Auror with bodily harm.

"Enough." Malfoy's voice cuts through the tense silence.

He's over at their side in the blink of an eye. Ginny suspects the apparating ban only applies to guests. He brushes Pansy's wand away with a smooth gesture, giving her a look that makes her turn pale, then helps Ginny up.

"I'm sorry Miss Weasley" His voice is low and, to Ginny's surprise, he sounds genuinely contrite. To the room at large he says in a louder voice "I'm sorry that I'll have to ask you all to leave this morning. My wife is unwell. It has been our pleasure to host you, and we look forward to your company in the future."

Then, abruptly he releases her, and makes for the exit, gracefully side-stepping the old dowager, the Indian businessmen and the others who try to pull him aside.

Somewhere behind her, Putty is asking if she's okay. Ginny ignores him, ignores Pansy, now shaking slightly and staring at her wand, to follow Malfoy.

She catches him on the staircase.

"Malfoy-" She says. He turns. His expression is one of complete boredom. _Hermione likes him,_ Ginny thinks, and hates the thought. _Hermione likes him enough to have kept this secret for years._

"Are you sleeping together?" Ginny blurts out. It's not what she meant to ask at all. It's completely unprofessional, and not at all pertinent to her case-

Malfoy raises his eyebrows. "That question from you would hurt her so much more than this idiotic article." He scowls, and looks handsome even with the grimace "She has such faith in you and your goodness."

Above him there's a small quailing cry. A baby. Malfoy breaks their eye-contact. "Excuse me."

*

The debrief back at the Ministry is long and boring. At Robards prompting, Ginny recounts every moment at the Manor in great detail - except Pansy's subtle threat. No one else had seen the flickering of her fingers on her wand. No one else was trained to. Ginny can't quite bring herself to rat out someone so obviously terrified.

Robards frowns anyway, and sits in silence for a full minute after she's finished as though there might be something else she would add if he just waited long enough. The Auror cubicles behind Ginny are quiet on a Sunday night. She longs for the scratch of quills, and her co-workers' hum of controlled chaos. She feels unreal sitting in Robards darkened office in all this silence. Like a story she's telling James before bedtime.

"How'd Putty do?" Robards asks after another long moment. Ginny blinks at him. "You called him that in your report at least three times Weasley" There's a silence and then they both laugh at the same time. It breaks up the tense mood. Makes Ginny feel a little more like herself.

"He did surprisingly well" She says, still half-smiling. "He's not a quarter of the twat he pretends to be."

She slouches a little in her chair and finally allows herself a long yawn. The day has been a long one. It will be dark when she leaves the Ministry at this rate. "That all govenor?"

Robards has begun fiddling with his glass of firewhiskey. He offered Ginny one at the start of the debrief, but she'd refused. She feels on edge, like one drop of alcohol could set her into a fit of laughter- or a fit of tears. "This business with Hermione Granger-"

"Yes?" Ginny says, perhaps a little forcefully. Robards lifts his eyebrows. "Sorry sir" Ginny mumbles.

"A lot of us have wondered about Ms Granger over the years." Robards begins once more, carefully, as though he was handing her the words to put in a nest. "I know you two live together, and you're fond of her but-"

"A few photos from that old cow don't mean jack-shit" Ginny says with a conviction she wishes she really felt "The _Prophet_ should be under investigation for libel."

Robards appears unconvinced, and continues as though she hadn't spoken "But be careful Weasley. Something's foul there. Has been for years."

"Is that all ?" Ginny says stiffly.

Robards looks even more troubled. "Has she ever-" He seems to get stuck on a mental concept, frowning slightly.

"Has she ever _what_ sir?" Ginny asks as smartly as she dares. _Has she ever hurt you?_ She knows that's the sentence Robards is searching for, even if he won't admit it to himself. He was at the Battle of Hogwarts too. A regular Auror, under Shacklebolt's war-time authority, who took out a Giant and a handful of lower rank Death Eaters. But Hermione killed the Lestranges. Hermione destroyed a part of Voldemort's soul.

"Has she ever frightened you?" Robards asks quietly.

Ginny wants to say no - wants to laugh and prove how silly the question is - but her whole body seems to be frozen. She sees Hermione framed by bare brambles. Her eyes that terrible black, and the smell of hot metal all about her.

Robards nods, as if she has answered after all. Ginny swallows. That silence wasn't her answer, because that was one moment in thousands. One moment in millions. She's lived with Hermione and her moods for years. She's let her son live with Hermione and her moods for years, for Merlin's sake! But at that, a grain of worry bubbles up from her stomach. No, she's being ridiculous. James and Hermione are like peas in a pod. Have been for years.

"May I please go now sir?"

This time Robards nods and waves her away. "Weasley?" He asks as she's almost out the door. "If anything- you can owl me anytime you know that right? Day or night."

"Thank you sir," She says, and makes sure to hold his concerned look "But I'm sure that won't be necessary."

Ginny apparates home this time, after a quick stop at the Ministry Owlery to send a letter to James. Hermione had absentmindedly agreed they'd write a weekly letter together, the second of which they are due to send any day now, but Ginny wants this one for James' eyes only. It's not really more than a hastily scribbled request to floo herself into Hogwarts for a quick chat Tuesday night. Nothing drastic, but she wants to hear it from him.

' _No, Mum'_ He'd no doubt groan, and she can almost feel the accompanying eye-roll _'Hermione has never scared me. Yes, I love you too. Please leave so I can go back to bed.'_ It'll be alright once she hears that.

She arrives a little ways down the street from the townhouse in a small gated park. A precaution Hermione had thought of years ago. It was a courtesy too. Allowed the other party to hear the gentle chime of the apparition detector. Make themselves presentable, or in Ginny's case, frantically clear their muggle fitness equipment from the living room floor.

Tonight the townhouse porch light is on, but the house itself seems dark. Ginny drops her keys in the little bowl by the door and shrugs out of her jacket. She hears a noise in the kitchen and heads down the dark corridor.

Hermione is in her periwinkle Japanese robe, chopping celery, and drinking occasionally from a long-stemmed wine glass to her right. She looks up after a moment. Her face is clean of all make-up, and Ginny has no idea what she's thinking.

"Hey" She says in lieu of silence.

"Hello" Hermione answers tightly and goes right back to chopping vegetables. Ginny's throat constricts with something that feels a lot like rage. She breathes out slowly through her nose.

"How long?" She finally asks after Hermione finishes with the celery and starts on carrots, not looking up the whole time.

"How long what?"

Suddenly, Ginny is so tired she could collapse on the spot. The weekend seems to rush up behind her, and take whatever hysterical strength she had. "Don't make me ask Hermione." She says quietly, leaning against the doorway of the kitchen, and pulling off one boot, then the next. "Please. We're better than that."

"Since-" Finally Hermione sets aside the chopping board. She takes a long swig of wine. Looks everywhere but at Ginny. "Since Bellatrix kept me at Malfoy Manor. We used to have lessons together. Narcissa was quite firm in her belief that the NEWT-abiding world would go on."

She shakes her head at her own joke, and then quickly drains the rest of her wine. Glances at Ginny quickly over the rim, and visibly winces at what she sees.

"Draco and I became friends. It's not a crime is it? To have friends? You have them." Here she actually has the gall to smile at Ginny "Even Harry had a few I seem to remember."

"Leave Harry out of it." Ginny grits out, hating how territorial she sounds, but hating Hermione's exasperated huff of breath more. They stare at each other in silence for a minute, and Ginny has almost decided to break it, to offer an olive branch which is her role in this relationship, when Hermione says-

"It's terribly tedious you know." She gestures at Ginny with her empty glass "Your little widow act. You hardly spent more than five minutes dating. You can be happy that the Wizarding Community doesn't have more than one brain cell to rub together, because if they thought about it for five minutes - well." She pours herself another glass. She does it carelessly, especially for a woman who's lectured Ginny about the importance of keeping the kitchen tidy more than once. Red wine sloshes on the counter.

Ginny is still struck dumb anyway. No one else has had the guts to ever put it so bluntly. It wasn't like she hadn't thought it herself a few times. Harry was a school boyfriend after all. Not even the school boyfriend she dated the longest. The father of her son? Sure. The last bastion of all that was good and fair in the world? Probably not. But it became harder and harder every year to not remember him as the mythology the _Prophet_ peddled. It became harder to just remember Harry as he'd actually been.

"They forgive you a lot too." She says, low. Hermione's eyes gleam. She drains her second glass easily and leans forward.

"Oh and what do they forgive me?" Her lips have got a red stain, and she's leaning the sleeves of her favourite kimono robe into a puddle of the stuff. It's so messy and unlike her that Ginny is momentarily at a loss for words.

"Your coldness" She finally says, flushing because of all the _stupid_ -

Hermione laughs. It isn't a very nice laugh. Ginny swears she sees the shadows of stains on her teeth now. But wine wouldn't have done that right? The scent of hot metal is back. Ginny breathes in and out through her mouth a few times so she doesn't have to smell it anymore. Counts to five and pictures Harry's face. She decides to be the bigger person. "You know this Malfoy business is different"

Hermione waves a dismissive hand, and straightens back up. "One of the Weird Sisters will have an affair and it'll be old news by Friday." She sounds supremely confident in that.

Ginny feels something crack in her anyway. "Why didn't you tell me?" Her voice comes out smaller than she's ever heard it. Hermione considers her for a moment, expressionless. Then she snorts.

"And deal with this?" She gestures at Ginny. "You base half your identity on being Hermione Granger's only friend"

Ginny didn't think anything could hurt worse than the article. But here it is. Hermione actually looks shocked by her own words. She's raised both hands over her mouth. "Ginny-" She begins, muffled, and sounding as horrified as Ginny feels-

Ginny backs away. Her _"Fuck you"_ is ruined by her having to wipe a tear away.

Hermione's hands stop trembling. She lowers them slowly, her black eyes scanning Ginny's face.

"Oh _fuck me_?" She says "You'd like that wouldn't you? If we're going to talk about the obvious."

Ginny stops wiping at her face and gapes at her, until it hits her what she means, what she has to mean. Hermione comes around the kitchen counter, and walks closer slowly until she's in Ginny's space. She trails one finger along Ginny's collarbone. This close, Ginny can see the small lines that have started appearing around her eyes in the last few years. This close Ginny can see the flush the alcohol has brought to her cheeks. Then Ginny stops breathing - stops feeling anything but the single digit. Hermione traces one finger up her neck, then tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

"What? Nothing to say?" Hermione leans in and all but breathes the last word into Ginny's ear. Bites the earlobe, and doesn't let go. The pain becomes sharper, until Ginny is on the verge of crying out -

Then, abruptly, Hermione shoves her away.

"Shit!" She's covered her head with her arm and is pulling on her hair so hard she must be on the verge of ripping it out at the roots. The other hand clutches her pockmarked wand. _It must have been behind my head,_ Ginny thinks, still dazed. _Pointed right at the base of my skull. If we're talking about intent to harm, it doesn't get more obvious than that.  
_

Hermione meanwhile has flung her wand away from her. It lands with a small shower of green sparks. She lowers her arms and looks at Ginny. "Ginny - you're bleeding! Let me-"

Ginny takes a step away from her as Hermione turns too quickly and knocks the wine glass off the counter. It wobbles, then falls and smashes.

 _"Shit!"_ Hermione hisses again. She turns and sees Ginny's second involuntary step back " _No!_ I'm just- I'm just so tired Ginny." She sinks down besides the kitchen cabinets. Ginny sees the glass shards around her bare feet. She wants to get Hermione out of there, but is wary of touching her. Wary of approaching her. "She's getting into everything. Ever since that day-" Hermione cuts herself off and hugs her arms tight around her knees like a child.

Ginny toes the worst of the broken glass away, then sits down next to her. Hermione shrinks away, as though she's the one who was just attacked in her own kitchen. "You're bleeding" She says again, pointing at Ginny's ear. Ginny takes her hand. Holds it. Hunts around for a decent sized chunk of glass. She cuts a shallow line into the palm of Hermione's hand. It's not deep, but Hermione doesn't flinch as she does it. Doesn't even seem to notice.

"Look" Ginny points at the blood beading along the cut "We're even. Now will you tell me what's going on with you?"

Hermione surprises her by thinning her lips and shaking her head so hard it has to hurt her neck. "You'll hate me Ginny. And I won't be able to bear it."

Ginny looks at her. Really looks for the first time in months. Looks past her attraction, and her self-pity or whatever- and sees how tired Hermione is. On the edge of collapse basically. Her hands are bonier than Ginny remembers, and her face has an unhealthy grey tinge to it that someone should have noticed weeks ago.

Ginny hears herself say something that she wouldn't have believed in the morning. "I don't care that you're mates with Malfoy. Put an ad in Witch Weekly for all I care." She squeezes Hermione's hand again. Blood wells from between their joined fingers. "But what's going on with you 'Mione?"

Hermione blinks "Ron used to call me that. Before-" She cuts herself off. Blinks, and appears more than a little dazed. "What's going on Ginny? Why are we on the floor?"

Ginny frowns. Holds a hand to Hermione's forehead. It feels normal. Cool even. "Are you having a laugh?"

"No" Hermione says, frowning, and disentangling their hands. "Jesus, I'm bleeding all over you Ginny."

She gets to her feet with Ginny's help. Looks around their kitchen like she's never seen it before, then back at Ginny. "What happened?" She finally asks with real suspicion.

"What do you remember?" Ginny asks. Hermione's eyes widen. It looks like she's realizing something is amiss at last.

"I was cutting up a few bits for dinner, and then we were on the floor." She says slowly. Then she looks up. Real panic suffuses her voice. "Ginny what happened? Did I say something?" She looks around the kitchen. Spots her wand on the floor. Looks back at Ginny's ear. "Did I - _did I hurt you?"_

Ginny shakes her head, but Hermione takes a step back and claps her hands in front of her mouth anyway.

"'Mione I think we have to get you some help" Ginny says and wills herself not to start crying afresh. Wills her voice to stay even. She won't make Hermione feel worse than she already does. Not tonight. "I'll take you to St. Mungos myself tomorrow morning. First thing. I think something's really wrong."

For a moment she thinks the other woman will argue, but then Hermione lowers her hands, and brushes the glass off the front of her legs. The red wine stain still marks her elbow. After a moment she nods. "Okay. Yes. I think- yes, I think it's time." She straightens, runs a hand through her hair and nods again, mostly to herself this time it seems. Sways a little on her feet. "But first - first I need to sleep. God, I'm so tired Ginny."

Then, wonder of wonders, she lets Ginny reach an arm under her shoulders and guide her towards the stairs. Lets herself be supported up to bed. Watches quite docilely as Ginny pockets both wands, and layers on alert charms. The best kind- the kind they don't teach you in training until you're nearly a full Auror. "Just for your own safety" She says to Hermione, trying to make the movements look casual, not like the insanely complicated spell that it is. Hermione barely seems to hear her. She's crawled in the bed in her clothes and has collapsed.

Ginny looks around her room. It's a little messy with uncurling rolls of official Ministry parchment, but otherwise nearly entirely devoid of personality. There's a stack of novels by the bed that look like they haven't been touched in months. The other bed stand has a vase of pale yellow roses. These at least look fresh.

Before Hermione said what she had said tonight, Ginny might have slept in the chair. Prior to the afternoon by the canal she would have climbed into the bed with her. Held her the whole night if that was what she wanted. Now, Ginny flicks off the overhead light on her way out of the door.

"Goodnight Hermione" She says, lingering for a minute longer to watch the rise and fall of the lump on the bed "I'm just down the hall okay?"

*

Ginny has nightmares. The worst sort too. They pull her nearly into wakefulness, make all the shadows in her room look like large looming monstrosities, and then dump her back into sleep before she can fully escape. When she opens her eyes in the morning, the light coming into her bedroom is cool and muted, and she's still exhausted. It's early judging by the noise of muggle cars outside.

She lies still a moment longer before the night before washes over her again. Hermione in the kitchen. The blood, the tears. And that pockmarked wand pointing at her skull. Ginny rolls over gracelessly in bed, reaches, and fumbles in her bedside drawer. Both Hermione's and her own wand are still there. She breathes out a bit of air she hadn't realized she was holding. Under her palm, her own wand gives her a familiar rush of warm sparks. The other one though- Ginny snatches her hand back before she's completed the thought. The other wand feels nasty. Like reaching into mud and touching something with too many eyes. 

There's a light tap on the window. A barn owl has landed- one of the Hogwarts owls Ginny guesses. She opens the window, and unties the scrap of parchment about its ankle. The owl turns and takes off with one slow blink of its yellow eyes.

_Sure thing. Tuesday night, 10pm. Can you floo me the pile of comic books under my bed? And Dad's old Snitch? Best regards, James Potter._

She snorts at the _'best regards'_. One of his new friends must have been watching while James scrawled out this message. The _Potter_ sign-off is interesting too. She'll have to ask him if anything has happened to bring this on. After she asks him about Hermione of course. Which hopefully won't bring on any questions of his own.

Ginny closes her eyes once more, then makes herself get moving. She'll check on Hermione, and then maybe make them a pot of coffee. She'll cut up some fruit too- Hermione prefers that to a greasy breakfast- and it will be god for both of them to have something lining their stomach before they start for St. Mungos. _What if she's changed her mind?_ a little voice at the back of Ginny's head wonders as she pulls on the cleanest sports sweater from her pile of laundry. _Then I'll put her in a full body-bind and carry her there myself,_ she thinks. _This has gone on long enough._

 _It's a relief,_ Ginny thinks, as she finally knocks lightly on Hermione's door. It's surprising how much of a relief it is to admit that something is wrong with her friend. She wonders at this feeling - how long has she noticed something is wrong without allowing herself to notice it?

There's no reply to her gentle taps, so Ginny waits another moment, then opens the door, pitches her voice low and says "Hermione, we have to make a move if we want to get there before rush hour-"

And stops.

Hermione's bed is perfectly made and perfectly empty. The alerts Ginny layered on still glimmer faintly on the floor, seemingly undisturbed. Her closet is open, and Ginny spies the empty clothes hangers with something like horror.

There's a cream envelope, leaning against the vase of roses on Hermione's bed stand. There's no name on it, but Ginny knows that it's for her.

It contains a card, the kind that are expensive at stationary shops. _'You're 8!'_ This one proclaims in blocky cartoon writing, the number taking up most of the space. It must be one of James' old cards. Except someone has amended it with black marker. _'you're too L8!'_ it reads now, in large childish handwriting,and Ginny nearly drops the card.

Inside the card Hermione has crossed out her own long-ago message of congratulations to James. Instead she's written in her customary neat script:

_'Have gone ahead to St. Jerome. Do not follow. I mean it Ginny. Keep out of this one if you want both of us to come out alive.'_


End file.
